The Mysteries of Marcie Fleach:Chapter 2-Carburator Conundrum
by Sketchpad
Summary: The hit reality show, "Wacky Races" is starting its next race in Crystal Cove, and the whole town is revved up. But when Marcie must solve the mystery of a Racer's murder, *and* pass her driving test, she'll have to get high marks on both, or she'll crash and burn!
1. 1

_1~_

Far below the high, torturous sun, and along a vast, deadly desert, a high-speed battle was taking place.

Driver Richard "Dick" Dastardly glanced down at the rear camera monitor on the dashboard of his racer, none too pleased with what was occurring behind him.

His racing car, #00, also known as the _Mean Machine_, was a high-tech, purple and black jetcar, designed around a strong steampunk esthetic. It roared across a lonely Nevada road, while behind him, ten vehicles of various designs and abilities, hotly pursued it.

Leading the pack was a gleaming white and steel conveyance that gave the appearance of a bleeding-edge concept car combined with something reverse-engineered from Area 51.

It steadily closed the distance on the jetcar, outpacing the others behind it by tens of yards.

From his futuristically styled _Convert-a-Car_, #3, a vehicle that could transform into a myriad of other vehicles and machines, Patrick Pending, professional race car driver, adventurer and ex-professor of Physics at Princeton University, kept his eyes glued to the rear of the _Mean Machine_, wondering when Dick would make his move.

Pat chanced a glance back from his cockpit-style driver's seat, and took in the commanding view of the landscape from the impact-resistant canopy that sat on the flat, wide front of the car.

The others were starting to increase their speed and gain on him. In particular, an ungainly machine in eye-catching red that had literally leap-frogged ahead of the other cars, and now closed in on Pat.

The car in question, a curiously mad hybrid of early 20th century roadster and World War I German biplane, was driven and _piloted_ by a man whose face was covered by a pair of flying goggles that sat atop his bulbous nose, wearing a matching red combat pilot's flight suit, complete with parachute.

With a stomp of a special pedal beside the accelerator, the small propeller jutting from the radiator grill of the plane/car hybrid, #4, the _Crimson Haybaler_, sputtered into rotary life, creating enough revolutions, without tearing the vehicle apart, to produce acceleration.

With the boost of speed, the _Haybaler's_ double-decker, fabric-and-framed wings caught lift and it took off from the road.

Unfortunately, because of the sheer weight of the thing, the _Crimson Haybaler_ could fly no farther than several yards before gliding, and then landing with a jarring bounce, absorbed by a modified transmission and shock absorber system.

Pat turned his attention back to Dick just in time to see, at last, the perennial cheat's gambit.

"Alright, Muttley," Dick said, while he focused on the road. "It's time for the other Racers to..._mine_ their own business!"

In the passenger seat beside him, his henchman, of sorts, Muttley gave his customary wheezing snicker in approval to the plan, if not to his master's bad joke.

The shaggy-furred canine, a troublemaking descendant of the Annunaki, flexed the digits of his upraised paw eagerly, and then pressed a large button on his side of the dashboard.

From hatches in the rear of the jetcar, ten round, prop-driven, explosive-packed drones, swarmed from the _Mean Machine_, each one cunningly programmed with the emissions profile of a selected Wacky Racer's car to home in on.

Pat quickly touched his headset.

"Racers, Dick just launched his Terrible Turbo Drones!" he reported. "We're coming up on the home stretch. I'm going to try to find their wi-fi frequency and hack into their targeting computers. In the meantime, I suggest we protect each other from them as best we can."

After he heard a number of shared affirmatives come back to him, he switch his headset back to direct voice communication with his car, just as the TTD programmed with the _Convert-a-Car's _emissions profile closed in on him.

"Time to go off-road. Geococcyx Californianus," he commanded the car.

The length of the silver and white conveyance reared, the command section hinged downward to become a head, of sorts, as sections of the chassis either retracted and folded away, to become more avian and aerodynamic, or expanded and extended, like the simulacrum of a long pair of tail feathers.

With the complete extension of powerful, servo-driven, bird-like legs from the undercarriage, transitioning from tires without breaking stride, the _Convert-a-Car _converted to "Roadrunner Power", and peeled away from the road, but kept a parallelled pace with the _Mean Machine_, his Drone in close pursuit.

The pilot/driver, a German named Maximillian Von Doofflieger, known to the Racers, and to history, as the Red Max, lined up the antique sight of the car's forward twin machine guns on his approaching Drone.

The cannons spat at the weapon ahead, but Max misjudged the Drone's approach angle, and the bullets chopped away at asphalt instead.

The Drone beelined towards the props of the _Haybaler, _preparing to detonate on contact and rip the hybrid into flaming ruin.

Max took his mind out of the moment and found the ace pilot he once was, back in control. He hit the breaks and skidded into a marked deceleration, giving him precious seconds to stomp on the Prop Pedal.

The _Crimson Haybaler _jumped with newborn speed, narrowly missing and flying over the Drone by inches, causing it to continue on its path below the car.

The Drone's computer swiftly recomputed its pursuit path, banked around, and dove after it, as the car landed, for a terminal rear-end.

From his rearview mirror, Max saw it coming in fast, and knew he had to time his next move with combat precision.

From the Drone's angle of attack, it would surgically strike Max directly on his back, no doubt, a little personal programming from Dastardly. But, now, it was close enough.

Max slammed on the breaks again, causing the outmaneuvered Drone to overshoot past Max's head, down the length of the front half of the _Haybaler_, and into its waiting guns.

A squeeze of the steering wheel triggers, and his Drone became a hot storm of armor fragments, detonated ordinance, and ruined electronics.

Max gave a roaring laugh as the_ Crimson Haybaler_ drove through the debris.

Several cars back, the sound of gunfire sparked the attention of the short men sitting together in the front seat of an unusually fast 1920's sedan.

Not far from Max's dogfight with his Drone, Penelope Pitstop, in her _Compact Pussycat_, #5, and Peter Perfect, in his dragster, the _Turbo Terrific_, #9, were inspired by Max's limited, yet successful aerobatics.

Over their headsets, the gruff voice of diminutive Clyde Barrel, leader of the equally diminutive Ant Hill Mob, was heard.

"Hey, Penelope! You and Fancy Pants need some help wit dese things?"

Penelope purred back, "We sure do, Sugah. We'll try to lead them little ol' Drones to you."

Back at their car, Clyde ordered, "Okay, boys! It's time for the 'ol protection racket! Ring-a-Ding, you take the wheel!"

"Our Drones are coming up fast, my dear," Peter said nonchalantly to Penelope over his headset, despite seeing his possible death flying low and fast towards him. "Care to do the Crisscross?"

"You lead, darlin'," he heard her purring reply.

Snow-white leather gloves tightening her grip on the wheel, Penelope lined up parallel with the length of the _Turbo Terrific, _and then widened the gap between them.

Without warning, she gunned the engine, leaping ahead of Peter. She spun the small car into a tight drift and cut across the front of him. At the same time, Peter decelerated his longer car into a skid and slipped around behind the _Pussycat_, pulling up alongside her from the other side.

This precision driving confused the flight computers of the Drones, forcing them slow down and pass overhead of the two drivers, before righting themselves, at a distance, and chasing them down.

Three of the mobsters, led by Clyde, picked up their Thompson machine guns, and stuck them out of the open front passenger window. The other three clambered into the wide back seat with their weapons and brandished them out of the open rear left window.

The 20's black sedan, which the criminals christened _The_ _Bulletproof Bomb_, #7, was now bristling with barrels, all of which were firing, trying to zero in on a Drone up ahead.

The sedan swerved suddenly, throwing off the mobsters' already shoddy aim.

Clyde glared at Ring-a-Ding. "What are you doin', you dummy? Drivin' with you eyes closed?"

The criminal dunce twisted the steering wheel this way and that, his eyes, blissfully shut.

"Duh, how did ya know, Clyde?" he asked.

"Keep the Bomb steady!" his comrades yelled at him. Opening his eyes and holding the wheel on a reasonable angle, Ring-a-Ding did as he was told.

The Drone assigned to them, however, was soaring into a killing path with the Mob, increasing their fervor to aim and hit accurately. They collectively prayed that, if they failed to hit their Drone, the _Bulletproof Bomb _was also_ bombproof_, as well.

Their erratic firing proved to be worthless, as the Drone closed in on the _Bomb_, promising to blow the car apart when it touched it.

"Oops! Sorry, guys! My hand slipped," Ring-a-Ding apologized, after he swerved the car again, causing their death deliverer to miss the broadside of the auto. The sudden jerky maneuver also brought their combined fire closer to Penelope's Drone.

"Ring-a-Ding!" Clyde called out. "Keep drivin' like that!"

"Duh, okay, if that's whatchu want," the dimwit driver said, shrugging, before he made another haphazard move.

The unpredictable movement made the Drone lose seconds in lining up to its target, and before it could correct its course, a pulse of better-aimed bullets punched up through its armor, and detonated it from below.

Another swerve, and the Chicago Typewriters' combined fire finally found and ripped into Pitstop's Drone from behind, causing it to explode.

"Bless ya'll for the timely assistance," Penelope thanked the Mob through her helmet's headset.

Every Drone had what could reasonably be considered a thinking computer for a brain, and Peter's Drone, seeing how vulnerable its comrades were by flying at a higher altitude, _thought_.

It lowered its altitude, even as it began closing the distance between it and its target, bringing the gangsters' tracking machine gun fire dangerously close to hitting either the _Turbo Terrific's _engine, or worse, to the back of Peter's helmeted head.

"Gentlemen, cease fire!" Peter yelled into his headset. "You're going to hit _me_!"

Quickly, the firing ceased.

Peter swerved as best he could to avoid a lock-on, but his _Turbo_, being a dragster, had difficulties on high-speed turns, making his long, slim racer a sitting duck.

Before anyone could figure on a plan of action, Penelope hit the breaks and slipped the _Pussycat_ behind Peter, occupying the space that was rapidly shrinking, thanks to the Drone, then flicked a switch on her dashboard.

The car's trunk opened, releasing a white, robotic boom arm that folded up and out, ending in an articulated servo-grip holding a large powder puff.

The boom lowered until it brought the puff to ground level, then the grip proceeded to pat the road, creating a thick smokescreen of face powder to confuse the Drone.

Its brain followed the logic that if its vision was impaired, yet was safe from incoming fire by flying low, than it would need to fly even lower to avoid this _new_ harm.

It flew too low to the ground to avoid the powder cloud, and promptly crashed against the road, tumbling into a trailing wreck of debris.

"Thank you, my dear Penelope," Peter breathed gratefully. "Remind me, after the race, to thank you properly with dinner."

With a burst of speed, Penelope blasted ahead of him, but made sure to favor him with some Southern Hospitality by blowing a kiss his way.

And so it went, with Racers seeing and _seizing_ the opportunity to give help and receive it when a Drone flew in for the kill.

When caveman Rock Slag drove their car closer to the _Buzzwagon_, #10, brother Gravel carefully aimed and threw his club end-over-end at Rufus Ruffcut's Drone, damaging it and causing it to fall under the _Buzzwagon's_ disc-like saws that served as its tires, slicing it to pieces.

Rufus returned the favor by passing the Slags' car, the _Boulder Mobile_, #1, and, after pulling off the long handled axe from the side of his log-built car, slashed the cavemen's Drone in half with a single swing from his muscular arm, much to the delight of his partner, the Annunaki-descended beaver, Sawtooth.

Lazy Luke, the laidback hillbilly, didn't seem to stir, as he drove his coal stove-powered, ramshackle _Arkansas Chugabug_, #8, with his bare feet, even managing to take a swig of moonshine from a nearby jug when cowardly Annunaki-descended co-driver and sidekick, Blubber Bear, warned him of their approaching Drone.

When it got close enough, Luke, calmly holding a mouthful of liquor, lit a wooden match and spat out the concoction in a forceful blast in front of the fire, creating a makeshift flamethrower that reached out and incinerated the Drone.

Throwing on a pair of field glasses, Sergeant Roderick Blast surveyed the battlefield from the view from his turret, part of his hybrid, an armored combination of reinforced jeep and midget tank that was called the _Army Surplus Special_, #6.

From what he could see up ahead, the race was continuing where the Racers had fought their way through, which pleased Blast. However, he thought he could do a better job at combat.

To the side and high above him, the gothic-themed _Creepy Coupe_, #2, an oddly built racer, due to the large belfry that sat atop of it, was being held aloft by a dragon, his serpentine neck, wings and balancing tail extending through the belfry's open windows.

Because of the obscene amounts of drag the belfry was creating, the _Coupe's_ flight was slow and ungainly, as the Gruesomes, a Frankenstein's Monster/vampire driving team, tried to avoid its Drone, which was having a better time of tracking it.

Blast slapped at the side of the turret, getting the attention of the driver.

"Yeah, Sarge?" called out Private First Class David Meekly over the noise of the #6's treads and modified diesel engine.

"Meekly! Stay with the _Coupe_! We're gonna win this thing...by attrition!"

"Gotcha, Sarge!"

The _Special_ began to pull away from the rest of the Racers, charging on an intercept course with the _Coupe_.

Blast rotated the turret in the flying car's direction, but because the turret had no fire control to speak of, all aiming had to be done with the naked eye. A serious design flaw, he knew, but Roderick always like a challenge.

He elevated the barrel. He wanted to lead his target, tiny as it was.

Satisfied with the angle, he yelled. "Keep 'er steady, Meekly!" His hand tightened on the trigger.

A round launched out of the turret's barrel and screamed at the _Creepy Coupe_, streaking behind the car and obliterating the lightweight Drone, continuing on its trajectory beyond the mountains, to destroy a gas station in a nearby town.

The two soldiers' cheering was immediately subdued as _their_ Drone came out of the smoke and heat of the battle ahead and flew at them.

Blast wasn't too concerned, at first. Due to the _Special's _construction, something like the Drone might not do as much damage as feared, at least not to the thick, curving armor of the turret.

But Meekly, he knew, wouldn't be so lucky. Exposed as he was in the driver's seat below, if the Drone struck the front end of the jeep, it would wreck it instantly and kill the private in the process.

"Meekly!" he commanded. "Get up here in the turret with me!"

The young soldier never once tried to leave his seat while the _Special_ was in transit, not just because it was inherently dangerous to do so, but because there was a sense of pride in being its driver. Out of all the poor SOB's in the Army motorpool to chose from, his sergeant had picked him.

But any chance he had to leave his seat was dashed, as the Drone closed the distance so swiftly, the private knew he didn't have the time.

"No time, Sarge!" he cried out, expecting that to be the last thing he would say in life.

What he heard after his words, however, was the unexpected roar of a dragon-born inferno bloom in front of the _Special_, the Drone disappearing in its heart.

Sergeant Blast and Private Meekly gave the Gruesomes a stiff, yet thankful salute as the _Army Surplus Special _drove through the burning patch of road, followed by the banking _Creepy Coupe_.

The _Convert-a-Car_-_turned Roadrunner _kicked up plumes of desert sand under its clawed metal feet, as the final Drone kept a tenacious pace with it.

While he steered, Pat ran wireless frequency permutations through his dashboard's mainframe, and had the car's communications array trained on the weapon behind him.

Sets of numbers were painted across the small monitor, each one less effective than the last, and the professor was about to quit trying to disable Dastardly's little gift and simply destroy it, somehow, when a green string of numbers scrolled on the screen.

Without thinking, Pat highlighted the numbers, and then punched the Enter key.

The Drone's on-board com received the access code, freely giving back its targeting computer settings to Pat's computer.

Two boxes appeared on the monitor, a red lined one filled with a picture of the unconverted _Convert-a-Car _and its exhaust profile, the other, green, with the _Mean Machine _and _its_ profile.

Quick fingers danced over keys to change the target selection. Now the green box encompassed his car, and Dick's was boxed in red.

With a tap of the Enter key, the Drone slowed down and banked away from the car's rear, heading in the direction of the _Mean Machine_, Pat following close behind.

Inside the jetcar, Dick engaged in one of his favorite pursuits. Gloating.

"Ha! Ha! Better cheating through technology, eh, Muttley?"

"Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!" Muttley agreed with a snicker. Then he noticed the returning Drone out of his rearview mirror.

"Rut, roh!"

Dick hadn't heard his dog, and continued, unaware. "Soon, we shall savor the sweet taste of victory, while those idiots, out there, taste sand and ash!"

By the time he felt Muttley's urgent tap on his arm, the Drone had reached the powerful, yet vulnerable engines.

Muttley covered his floppy ears, waiting for the hit, as Dick Dastardly finally noticed his own Drone colliding with the jetcar's rotund engine nacelle.

Though the _Machine_ was armored and had a reinforced frame underneath, the jets were blown open. Leaking fuel and wayward nozzles of fiery exhaust turned the _Double Zero _into a rolling smoke factory and a potential time bomb.

Dick opened his bubble-canopied door, and jumped out, along with Muttley. They tumbled away from the decelerating deathtrap, and covered their heads in the sand with their arms, when they stopped.

The boom from the ruptured fuel tanks was heart stopping. Dick raised his head from the desert, in time to see Pat and the _Convert-a-Car _bound back onto the road and run, full tilt, towards the spectators and across the waiting finish line.

The sounds of individual disappointment might have been heard from the other Racers over the cheers that day, but one voice could be heard crying out to the heavens in frustrated anguish.

"Drat!" Dick Dastardly cursed venomously. "_Double_ drat!"

The three boys and one girl cheered with Marcie Fleach in front of the television set, as they sat together on the living room floor of the Stone residence.

"That was so _cool_!" crowed Eastwood Stone.

"Did you see when that _dragon_ was flying around?" asked his brother, Norris. "That fireball? _That_ was intense!"

Linda Carter, the boys' sister spoke up. "I can't wait to drive my own car and tear up the countryside! Marcie, do you think I could be a Wacky Racer someday?"

Marcie thought, then gave her a smile, saying, "I think so, Linda. I hear all you need is fully paid life insurance and a high pain threshold."

"Did someone say "pain threshold"?" Bronson's braggadocio voice called out.

The kids and their bespectacled babysitter turned to see Sheriff Bronson Stone and his wife, Mayor Janet Nettles, walk into the living room, fresh from a night on the town at an upscale restaurant called "Andre's Entrées."

"Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad," the children chirped.

"Hi, Babies," Janet answered while she took off her coat. "Did you drive Marcie crazy, tonight?"

"Nah," Marcie assured her. "They were perfect little angles. Uh, I mean _angels_. I have some geometry homework to do when I get back home."

"Why didn't you do it here?" asked the mayor. "Could've saved yourself the trouble."

"Oh, that's okay, ma'am. I was so caught up in watching the Wacky Races with the kids, I probably wouldn't have got much done."

Janet looked at the credits roll, ending another thrilling show. "Really? It's that good?"

"Oh, yeah, Mom!" little Billy Stone said. "It's one of those reality shows. They take these racers, and they compete in cross-country races for the title of World's Wackiest Racer. And in between all of that, there's all this back-stabbing. It's the best!"

"This week, my favorite Racer, Professor Pat Pending won," Marcie told her. "He and his car are so cool."

Janet gave a thoughtful pose. "Hmm, my mayoral sense is tingling. The town _could _use a boost in tourism revenue. If I can convince the show's producers to shoot a episode here in Crystal Cove, that would be great."

"They could start their next race here," Marcie agreed. "_Lots_ of publicity and cameras."

"Oh, yes. You can _never_ have too many cameras and publicity," Janet said, with an eager grin, her politician chops, salivating.

Marcie got up off the floor, as the brothers and sister went to their bedrooms to change into their pajamas and go to bed.

"Goodnight, Marcie," they said in unison.

"Goodnight, guys."

Marcie walked over to Bronson, palm itching for contact with government script.

The sheriff gave a sulking sigh and took out his wallet, grumbling all the way.

"Is there any way you could get paid without it being actual cash?" he groused.

"I accept all major credit cards, if that'll make a difference, Sheriff," Marcie quipped with a predacious grin.

Stone sniffed disdainfully. "Teenaged bandits, like you, are gonna rob me blind! Why don't you take my social securuty, _too_, while you're at it."

Janet quietly brought her husband to heel. "Oh, stop that grumbling, Bronson Stone. Marcie's doing a terrific job babysitting, and she's worth every penny. How would you like it if every time we went to the Tiki Tub, we couldn't dance, because the kids would run around, causing property damage like last time. I'm the mayor! Do you know how embarrassing it would be to be barred from a place in your own town?"

Stone knew he was beaten. Dealing with one woman was one thing, but being double-teamed by _two_ was suicidal.

"Alright, alright! You win! Sheesh, you females, and your "_logic"_," he conceded, paying Marcie the last of her due, before going into his sons' room to give them their daily, ham-handed lesson in dealing with the opposite sex.

"Thanks, Sheriff," the girl happily said, as she walked to the front door. She then stopped to speak to Janet once more before leaving.

"So, are you going to do it?" she asked her.

"Do what? Get the Wacky Races to start here? I hope so," the mayor told her. "It'll take some finesse, but I think I can charm these Hollywood types. I'll let you know how it goes."

"Thanks, Mayor Nettles," Marcie said, as she stepped outside into the evening. "Good luck and good night!"

"Good night, dear."


	2. 2

_2~_

It had been spread by word of mouth, and hinted at by local news for days, the end result being the crowds and local news reporters standing in rapt attention both in front of, and the across the street from, City Hall.

Mayor Nettles stood beaming behind her podium in the bright, weekend sun. She addressed her constituents with a voice that was strong with both civic pride and victory.

"People of Crystal Cove, I have wonderful, wonderful news. As you may have known, I have been in contact with HC Productions in Hollywood to shoot one of their shows here in town. Well, I am happy to announce that after three weeks of incessant phone calls and blackmail threats, Crystal Cove will be the starting location of the next season of the Wacky Races!"

She has expected cheers and applause, and even when they came fierce and free, Janet couldn't help the swelling in her heart that came from the fact that the people chose well in their civic leader and rewarded her with their affection.

While she half-heartedly tried to calm the crowds down and explain what a visit like this would mean for the economic prosperity and fame of the Californian town, Marcie stood in the throng on the other side of the street with Eleanor Angelina Shelby, friend and Maintenance Director of Fleach's Folly Factory.

"Thanks for bringing me here, Elle," Marcie said. "My dad was too busy to take me, today."

Eleanor waved it off with her easy, usual Gatorsburg charm. "Ain't no thing, sweetheart. Besides, you know what a motorhead I am. Any chance to see those wigged-out cars in person is worth a lunch break."

Marcie gave Eleanor a furtive, yet hopeful look. "Uh, speaking of cars. Do you still have that old convertible at home?"

"The Guinea Pig? You still want that, huh? Well, you know what my going price for 'im is."

"But, I don't have that much money, Elle," the teen admitted. She already knew what the unfortunate, inevitable answer was going to be. "I only have 318 dollars saved up."

Eleanor gave a commiserating chuckle. Oh, to be young, and wanting a car…

"I'm sorry, chickpea, but you'll have to come up with a little more than that. Tell you what, if anyone else wants to buy it, I'll tell 'em that I'm holding on to it for a friend."

"Yeah, okay," Marcie said, taking the charity glumly. Then a thought struck her that made her give the woman with a sly, knowing glance. "Oh, and say hi to Durango Jim for me."

Eleanor frowned in confusion at that. She knew him, but she didn't understand why Marcie would have mentioned him so out-of-the-blue.

"Durango Jim?" the woman asked. "What about 'im?"

Marcie looked up in innocent-looking thought. "Well, I heard that you like illegal street racing out by the farms."

"Shhh! Keep it down, Marcie!" Eleanor hissed in fearful annoyance, her eyes glued to Sheriff Sheriff B. Stone standing beside his wife at the podium. "The sheriff is right across the street. Besides, you know I do." What was the girl playing at?

"I know," Marcie told her coolly. "Just like I know that it was my homemade fuel additive that's allowing you to enjoy your status as number one racer, right now."

_Finally, the point, _Eleanor thought suspiciously. "So, what's your point, friend?"

"Only that Durango Jim and his _Longhorn Hustler _is gunning for your spot, and I figured you might need an edge in next Saturday night's race. I can give it to you."

Opening her wool jacket carefully so that only Eleanor could see inside, Marcie showed her a corked test tube standing in one of the jacket's inner pockets. Eleanor recognized the liquid's color immediately.

"You made more?"

Marcie closed her jacket and patted it lovingly. "Of course. I'm always thinking of you, and I'm thinking of you _winning_ next Saturday night with my formula under your hood, for, say, a discount on your convertible?"

Eleanor could see the A-bomb drop from the Enola Fleach. "C'mon, Marcie," she pleaded. "A gal's gotta eat."

"And this gal wanna _drive_," Marcie said, smiling pleasantly. "I want to buy your car before I pass my driver's exam next week. I like my schedules neat and tidy."

Eleanor stood silent, brooding, while she thought _very_ hard on the deal. She swore that she could see a pair of horns adorning the girl's head.

Marcie gave her a predator's grin, and spoke softly. "I would seriously consider taking the deal. I'm the only person who can make the additive to keep you and your _Hog Rod _on top."

Eleanor ran the scenario of that insufferable blowhard from that dusty, Mount Diabla dogtown, stripping her of her number one placement in a race that she _could _have won, the darkness of the night effectively hiding her shame.

The bomb fell, and she saw the mushroom cloud form over her negotiations, before she grunted in frustration, and then lowered her head, finally, in defeat.

"Alright," Eleanor grumbled into her chest. "You got yerself a deal. I'll bring it 'round your house tomorrow."

"Yes!"

Raising her head, Eleanor gave Marcie a pained, yet proud smile. "You're a mean horse trader, Marcie Fleach. You'd do your daddy proud."

"Thanks," Marcie said with a grateful grin, as the patrons around her cheered again.

"So," Mayor Nettles yelled above the tumult of accolades and whistles. "let's give a great, big Crystal Cove welcome to...the Wacky Racers!"

Pointing off into the distance, Janet guided every eye to the procession rolling down the wide street. The applause rose to a crescendo, as the Racers, driving slowly, and in single-file, began to pass the adoring people flanking both sides of the boulevard.

"Hey, here they come!" Marcie called out to Eleanor.

Leading the parade of autos, shining in the Saturday afternoon, looking as pink, and as feminine, as its driver, Penelope Pitstop gave waves and smiles to the fans as practiced and poised as a homecoming queen, the cheers and catcalls following in the _Compact Pussycat's _gracefully slow wake.

More raucous cheering greeted the caveman brothers Rock and Gravel Slag as they raised their weathered, wooden clubs in prehistorically manly glee, occasionally slamming them against the top of their _Bouldermobile_, carved out of a single chunk of rare, percussive-powered Concussionite, causing its log rollers to move with sedate speed.

Looking more like an architectural float that a race car, the _Creepy_ _Coupe_, with its belfry sitting high like a sail, cruised along, its driver and co-driver, Big and Little Gruesome, giving waves and occasionally snarls at the fans, who they knew, expected such a performance.

The rumble of diesel engine and treads heralded the approach of the tank-like _Army Surplus Special_. As per the agreement not to fire live ordinance in Crystal Cove's city limits, the Special sported a rack built around the outside of the turret, holding fireworks that shot off at regular intervals. High atop the turret, retired Sergeant Roderick Blast gave crisp salutes to the American people that passed by.

If diesel engines marked the Special's passing, then the rattle-trap sound of a haphazardly repurposed coal stove-turned steam engine announced the hillbilly ingenuity of the _Arkansas Chugabug_. Its driver, "Lazy" Luke Brown, leaned back in his wooden driver's seat, unperturbed by the cheering, and steered with uncanny precision with his bare feet, eyes closed, giving the appearance of sleepdriving, while his co-driver and friend, Blubber Bear, shyly waved to the crowds.

Coming into view, a blood red bi-plane/roadster hybrid taxied along, almost dominating the width of the street with its canvassed wingspan. Waving and giving a grin as big as his nose, sat the Red Max.

Just then, he turned to hear something, up ahead, that he didn't expect. A girl calling out to him. In proper German.

"Red Max!" Marcie yelled in unaccented Deutsche. "Ich denke, Ihr Auto sieht cool! Die Kombination von Flugzeug und Automobil ist eine sehr neugierige Design!" ("I think your car looks cool! The combination of warplane and automobile is a very curious design!")

"Danke, junges Mädchen!"("Thank you, young girl!") he answered in his native tongue.

"Wie gefällt es Ihnen hier in Crystal Cove?" ("How do you like it here in Crystal Cove?")

"Ich fühle mich sehr in Ihrer Stadt begrüßen zu dürfen! Das erinnert mich an die glorreichen Tage des Sieges Paraden, während ich meine Kanzlerin und dem Vaterland gedient!" ("I feel very welcome in your town! This reminds me of the glory days of victory parades while I served my Chancellor and the Fatherland!")

Marcie chewed on the statement in slight confusion as the _Crimson Haybaler_ drove by. She had always thought that the special cars that some of the Racers drove were just gimmicks to give a visual statement to the drivers' "character." Like costumes on a professional wrestler.

But the Red Max actually behaved, if not outright believed, that he truly was a German World War I ace. Surely, he was just a very good actor.

Surely.

"I didn't know you spoke his language," Eleanor replied, impressed.

Marcie shrugged, "Fifth period German. I guess it finally came in handy."

Marcie looked to the direction of where the cars were coming from, expecting the next one to roll by, when it happened.

Her breath caught in her chest. She could see the gleam of white and silvery brushed steel, the wide, flat, angular and streamlined shape of automotive technology.

When Professor Pat Pending's _Convert-a-Car _approached from up the street, canopy raised so the people could see the professor, and vice versa, Marcie gave an uncharacteristically loud whoop, and a frantic cheer.

"Elle! Elle!" Marcie yelled, shaking the poor woman by the arm. "There he is! There he is! There's Pat Pending!"

Marcie leaned out of the crowd, waving her arms and calling out to him. "Pat! Pat! Your reprogramming gambit in last season's race in Nevada was inspired! Hacking a mobile, automated weapons platform on the _fly_, like that, was so epic!"

The small parabolic mic that was extended from the seamless chassis, swiveled in her direction, picking up her words clearly. Pat adjusted his headset, following the mic to see Marcie waving with a smile as big as her glasses.

"Thank you! When you deal with Dick Dastardly as long as I have, you learn to think on your feet!" he replied into the headset, his words ringing out through concealed speakers in the car's aerodynamic fenders.

"Is it true that the _Convert-a-Car _runs on an experimental cold fusion engine?" she asked next.

"My dear, if it were any colder, it would make ice cream," came the jaunty reply.

Marcie debated about saying the next thing that popped in her head, embarrassed at being so swept up in the moment, but, deciding that she'll probably never get this chance again, blurted out, with blushing face, "I think you're cool!"

Pat favored her a charming grin. "Thanks, again! I am invariably felicitous to stimulate pulchritudinous, pubescent females, such as yourself!"

Eleanor could make heads or tails of that sudden storm of verbiage she heard, but a glance to Marcie indicated that not only did the girl understand it, she was _moved_ by it.

"You heard that?" Marcie asked, her face getting redder. "He...He called me pulchri..." Then she fainted in Eleanor's fast arms.

"Marcie!" Eleanor said, trying to gently shake awake. "Marcie, for crying out loud, wake up! You're making a durn spectacle of yourself, and since I don't understand a word he just said, and you're swoonin' like a bridesmaid, I'll just have to assume he said something nice to you. _Marcie!_"

A concerned-looking woman nearby, watched the scene of Eleanor trying to rouse the girl. Eleanor shrugged to her while she fanned air to a now awakening Marcie.

"That was...so cool," Marcie dazedly mumble to herself.

"Her mother was a groupie for Thomas Dolby," Eleanor said to the woman, apologetically.

Marcie's clearing thoughts were sidetracked by the sudden cacophony of Bronx cheers, boos, and hisses that rose when the black and purple Mean Machine prowled slowly up the street, its tinted windows, a new feature, Marcie noticed, darkening ever more deeply in the daylight.

"I guess it's good that the windows are tinted," she mused aloud, standing fully again. "He's probably showing the hecklers his unique sign language skills, right now."

While the citizens enjoyed the cavalcade of celebrities riding by, sheriff and mayor took the time to relax, watch the event, and speak quietly to each other.

"Well, you did it, Honey-Your Honor," Bronson told her proudly. "You got Hollywood to come here. You've made some little boy's life-long dream come true."

Mayor Nettles stretched covertly and exhaled. "Well, I can't take all the credit. Some scientific think tank that helps sponsor the races helped me convince the production to shoot here."

Stone waved it off. "Well, whatever happened, a boy can now follow his dream to show America what it means to be a true public servant, and a real man of law enforcement."

"You're not horning in on the shoot, Bronson." Janet told him in a deadpan voice.

"_Please_. Horning in?" Bronson said in an approximation of surprise. "Me and my men are simply providing security while the film crew is in town. Can I help it if, say, in the course of my duties, a camera just accidentally captures my rugged good looks, my steely eyes, my tough, but fair demeanor?"

His wife crossed her arms in annoyance and warned, "Bronson, don't act like a fool in front of the film crew. In fact, don't _act_. You're not very good."

"Humph! Shows what _you_ know!" the sheriff puffed up. "I've read the history of Dead Justice, growing up, and I _know_ that the people are ready to see Dead Justice ride again on the small screen!"

"And _you're_ the sheriff to play the part?" Janet asked skeptically.

"I even wrote the pilot script," he said proudly, then he cleared his throat and recited. "It was hot in the town. _Dead_ hot. And it was dangerous there, too. _Dead_ dangerous. But there was money to be made here. _Dead_ money-"

Janet put a fingers to his lips to quiet him. "Read it to me later, Hoss. Right now, I have to talk to the producers and get this shoot on the way, and you, my beloved husband, have crowd control."

Bronson looked out to the throngs of people while he glumly reached for his walkie-talkie.

"_Dead Justice _didn't have to do crowd control," he groused, just as the _Mean Machine _was crossing over to the next block.

When the driver/passenger section of the jetcar suddenly blossomed and shattered from an fiery explosion that sent a vibrating shockwave through the bones and hearts of everyone watching, HC Productions' camera crews were dutifully there to capture the unexpected death of Richard "Dick" Dastardly.


	3. 3

_3~_

Police cruisers cordoned off the cored-out hulk of the Mean Machine after fire teams practically flooded the street, making sure its fires and inky, choking smoke were eradicated.

Camera crews were kept back with the milling crowds that _didn't_ panic and run to the four winds, but continued to get shots from every advantageous angle of the civil servants working around the dead man and ruined car. It may have been jaded, but death always made for great television.

Marcie peered over the shoulders of other people trying to get a clearer look at the forensic team from the police department carefully probe, swab, remove, tag, and bag every relevant piece of evidence they could find from the jetcar's innards, which was considerable, since the forward half of the car was in scattered, easy to collect parts all over the street. Only the engine section had survived relatively intact.

By the sidewalk, gathered into a tight little crowd of their own, were the remaining Racers, looking both pensive and dour.

Stomping around them, like a sheparding dog, keeping them in a passive group, Sheriff Stone barked.

"If you think you fender-freaks are going to put craters in my town, you are sorely mistaken!"

"But, Sheriff," Private Meekly spoke up, despite getting a thick, accusing finger pointed in his face for his troubles. "we don't know what's going on, either."

"No, you wouldn't," Bronson snapped. "You Hollywood types are all alike. You carry your emotional baggage around with you, and don't care who it destroys. One or more of you probably had it in for that guy out there. Well, I've got news for you. Until I get to the bottom of this, you are _all_ considered suspects. You will not leave town, you will be interrogated, uh, I mean, _questioned_, and your stupid-looking cars will be staying in the nearest impound lot."

He walked away from the dismayed drivers, and was about to return to the crime scene, when he turned and gave the group a disdainful sneer.

"You may have noticed that I don't watch your stupid show," Bronson explained, then yelled out, "You don't have any cowboys in it!" He stormed off.

The forensic team leader waved the sheriff over when he saw him approach.

"What have we got?' Bronson asked.

"We'll be able to do a better job determining the cause of death when we get the evidence to our labs," the team leader explained. "but I'd say, due to the amount of debris in the street, and the fact that there is very little of the driver left, I'd say that this car...exploded."

"Good job. Keep me updated."

Bronson and the team leader were approaching the wreck of the Double Zero, when another, yet mercifully smaller blast roared from the top of the spherical engine section.

The crowds, cameramen, and forensic team stumbled back, gasping in sudden terror, and the two men were startled so badly, that they both fell to the ground, caught off-guard as to what to do, if the rest of the car detonated while they were so close to ground zero.

When they all collected their collective wits, and looked at the remains of the Mean Machine, they all, to a man, didn't know what to think anymore.

Clad in his now ethereally glowing, oversized cap, and customary dark blue racing duster, hovering clearly over what was left of his racer, was the very, _very_ irate ghost of Dick Dastardly.

No wires. No projectors beaming from some hidden place on the block. No distortion or fade caused by the bright light of day. Everyone there had scanned with all the senses at their command, and could find nothing to suggest a hoax. Just the reactions of this phantom, turning his head angrily to every sound or movement that caught his attention.

The people held their noise down to hear what the ghost would say, if he could say anything, at all.

The ghost pointed to the group of Wacky Racers on the sidewalk, and from the specter came a voice, like a megaphone was strapped individually to every listener there.

_"The Red Max has slain me!" _the ghost howled in anguish. _"The camera, and his car, will show his guilt! The Red Max destroyed meee!" _

With that, Dick's ghost cried the wail of the damned, and, without preamble, buzzed and dove on, and around, the now panicked rubberneckers, film crew, and deputies in the area.

With what felt like a football player giving a blow from behind, Marcie was pushed away from Eleanor in the stampede, and in the confusing separation, fell on her backside amid stumbling, running, and crushing feet.

She could just barely hear Eleanor call out for her, as she gathered herself, and slowly stood with her legs spread in a wide stabilizing stance, and arms raised out to her sides in a defensive posture.

The crowds had thinned out quickly, and the street was almost deserted of patrons, most of whom either hid behind parked cars, took shelter in nearby buildings, or went home, all together.

Eleanor ran over to the still intact Marcie, and gave her a grateful hug.

"You okay, darlin'?"

Marcie gave a thankful sigh and looked around at the mess left behind in the chaotic wake. The ghost was gone, few had remained.

"I'm okay, Elle," the teen assured her friend.

"What in the name of pecan pie was going on there?" the woman asked, astonished. "Was that a _real_...ghost?"

"I don't what it was," Marcie told her, keeping her eyes on the German, worrying about what would happen to him in Bronson's tender, albeit incompetent mercies. "but I think things have gotten a little too wacky for their own good."

From his cowering spot on the ground, Bronson twisted around to look over at the Racers. All of them, he noticed, had surreptitiously given their professorial comrade a wide berth, so as to not be associated with him.

"Round up those wacky racers!" the sheriff roared.

* * *

The front half of police headquarters was full of deputies taking down statements from Wacky Racers, cameramen from the studio filming Wacky Racers, and Wacky Racers, themselves, wondering what in the world was going to happen to them, while they waited to be interrogated.

Litigation was nothing new to the series. Collateral damage and insurance claims were what came with the territory, both in front of, and behind the cameras. But an actual death in a production was expressively frowned upon. Not that Dick had never tried to win at the expense of another racer's life, but due to his self-destructive nature and bad tactical mind, he usually cause himself more harm that to anyone else.

But now, _Dick_ was dead, possibly killed by someone who had never once retaliated against him in all the years that Dick had played very hardball against them.

Marcie, more out of curiosity that anything else, tried to blend in with the background, as she stood against a far wall, away from the circus this situation had made.

Sheriff Stone walked out his office with a clipboard, looking out at the crowd of worried drivers, mentally sizing them up, as though he were selecting a prime cut of beef.

"Okay," he instructed his nearest deputies, as he beckoned the first of the drivers with him into the interrogation room. "Let's get this cattle call on the way."

* * *

(The Gruesomes)

"Okay, you two," Bronson started, staring, flint-hard, across the desk at the two implausible monsters. "What did you have against Dick?"

The huge, Frankenstein's monster, named simply _Big_, regarded the sheriff through brown, mop-topped-covered eyes, and said in a voice sounding uncannily like Boris Karlof, "Why, nothing at all, officer. If anything, we admired him. He gave us monsters a reason to strive, and perfect our villainy."

"Yesss," hissed _Little_, his tiny, more tastefully dressed, vampire partner. "He wasss truly our type."

"By the way, Sssheriff," Little added, giving a fang-bearing smile, and locking hungry, golden eyes onto Bronson. "what isss _your_ type?"

"Okay, next!" Stone yelled, sounding more than a little rattled.

* * *

(Penelope Pitstop)

Stone watched the young woman glide into the room and sit with her usual grace in the chair across from him.

"Alright, Ms. Pitstop. I'm going to ask you a few questions," Bronson told her, failing to keep the infatuation out of his voice. "Please answer them to the best of your knowledge."

Penelope demurred. "I'll try, Sheriff."

"Please, Bronson."

Penelope smiled shyly. "Alright, _Bronson_. Such a strong name, Bronson. Did your daddy name you that?"

"No," he said, proudly. "actually my mother did. Bronson's my middle name. My first name is..._Sheriff_."

His wife, Janet, appearing from the doorway behind him, gave him a warning glance.

"And his last name is _mud_," she finished for him.

"Poopie," squeaked Bronson.

* * *

(Luke and Blubber Bear)

Stone pointed to Luke, and growled. "Now, why would a hippy like you want to hurt this Dastardly guy?"

Luke, as per his custom, took the hard-nosed attitude in stride. He leaned back in the chair and said, calmly, "Hippy? I ain't no hippy, son, I'm a hillbilly, born 'n bred. An' I didn't hurt nobody, 'cept my dear old momma."

This was news to Stone. "What did you do?"

Luke gave a sad shrug. "I promised I'd get her some of that fancy chewin' tobacco I heard they got in Gatorsburg. But how often do I get a chance to go there? Probably never, that's all. It's so durn far away. I'm sorry, Momma, yor boy don let ya down."

Blubber Bear, standing in a corner of the room, broke down into tears, which made Bronson stare at the otherwise, dangerous beast, in bewilderment.

"Uh, Gatorsburg is three miles from here," the sheriff felt he had to point out.

Luke brightened. "Darnation! It is? Shoot! Nevermind, Momma!"

* * *

(Rufus Ruffcut and Sawtooth)

Stone settled in his chair and looked at his paperwork. "Okay, how long-Whoa!"

His wooden chair collapsed from underneath him. On the floor, the sheriff glared venomously at Sawtooth, who was nibbling on the remains of one of the chair legs.

"Zut alors, Sawtooth!" Rufus chastised the beaver. "How many times must I tell you not to fill up ze cheap American furniture, eh?"

* * *

(Blast and Meekly)

Stone, settling in a metal chair now, looked soberly at the two soldiers.

"Sergeant, Private, before I start, I want you to know how much I appreciate all you've done for this country. Now, first question. Which one of you is the sergeant?"

"Give me twenty, mister!" an insulted Sergeant Blast yelled in Stone's face.

* * *

(Slag Brothers w/ Dr. Spring)

Stone stood outside the interrogation room, watching the two cavemen open file cabinets, and throw papers around inside the interrogation room. It was like watching the antics in a zoo's primate house. He felt safer outside.

An elderly man in a suit and designer glasses walked over to the sheriff, offering his hand to shake.

"Good afternoon, Sheriff Stone. My name is Dr. Maynard Spring. I'm from Sundial."

"I don't need any soap, but thanks, anyway."

"Not soap, Sheriff," Marcie spoke up from her spot in the room. "It's the world's leading think tank on time travel."

"Correct, miss," the doctor addressed the girl, then turned back to the sheriff. "And I must inform you that as the liaison between HC Productions and Sundial, I will be present during your questioning of the Anachros."

Stone looked more befuddled than usual. "The what, now?"

"An Anachro," Spring explained. "is a person or object from the past or future accidentally stranded in our present. The Red Max, the Slag Brothers, and the Ant Hill Mob are all Anachros who were accidentally brought into the present during Sundial's experiments years ago."

Stone sighed. He was never science-savvy, and this smacked not only of science, but weird science. One more element of wackiness he would have to get used to while they were here.

He looked back into the now disheveled room, and the two hominids, making nests with the paperwork.

"Uh, are these two, at least, housebroken?" he asked the doctor.

* * *

(Peter Perfect)

"Okay, pal," Stone asked Peter after he sat down. "what your story?"

Peter looked at Bronson with a charming, practiced grin. "Well, if really must know. I am the son of Percival and Patricia Perfect of the Newport Perfects. My pater's pecuniary position is quite prodigious, as porcelain is our primary product. As the progeny of this portentous pair, I will one day procure my prerogative as president of the company. Until then, I shall pursue my pleasure, pitting my peerless, prestigious powers of piloting against piston-engined pupils, perhaps unto perpetuity. I hope my parlay pointed you in a positive path, policeman."

Stone stared at the man, stunned. "Uh, I think so?"

"Perfect," said Peter.

* * *

(The Ant Hill Mob w/ Dr. Spring)

The short-statured mob, as a whole, stood on the far end of the desk, eyeing the law enforcement officer with steady suspicion. Clyde stepped out of the protective grouping of his gang, and addressed Bronson.

"Hey, pal. Clyde Barrel. Got anyplace to eat around here?" the mobster asked in as civil a manner as he could convey, which was brusque.

"I'm asking the questions, jumbo," Stone answered back. Authority was challenged, by a hood, no less, and would not be tolerated.

He looked down at the clipboard. "Let's see here, last name, Barrel? Heh, is that because you're so small, a hundred of you could fit in one?"

Smiling easy, Clyde walked over the desktop to face Stone directly, his hard eyes glinting in the room's light with well-honed malice.

"Hey, dats funny!" he told him, jovially. "Y'know, da last funny guy who made jokes about my size, he fit inna barrel, too. 'Course me and da boys had to make some modifications for him ta do it. Wit a hacksaw. Funny, huh?"

As his criminal comrades chuckled menacingly, Stone fearfully hid his face behind his clipboard, and peered over it quietly.

* * *

(Prof. Pat Pending)

"I can already see the guilt in your eyes, _Professor_. If that really is your name," Stone said to the scientist.

"It isn't," Pat replied.

"I knew it!"

"It's my title," Pat told him patiently.

Stone gave the man a weary scowl. "Look, you. I've got enough to deal with from smarty-types, like her, there." He gestured to Marcie, who had slipped into the room earlier, and was now watching the proceedings beside a deputy acting as guard.

He checked his clipboard. "Now, uh, what do you call your car, a convertible?"

"_Convert-a-Car_," Marcie corrected him.

"Whatever."

Marcie, waving and blushing to Pat, reintroduced herself to him when he noticed her.

"Hi, sir. Biggest fan, here. Again."

"Hello, there, and thank you, again!" Pat said, giving her a pleasant smile for her troubles.

Troubles that Stone was prepared to bestow on them both.

"Okay, you two, that's enough," he groused loudly. "This is not some nerd tea party. This is a serious police investigation. _Humph! _Look at you, with your long gloves and your lab coat. You've got that Doctor Frankenstein vibe going on, big time, don'tcha? I don't trust you!"

"I DON'T TRUST HIM!" he shouted to the deputy in the room.

Pat looked at the man with the utmost pity, as though Stone was a failed biological experiment that nothing could have been done to save.

Reaching into his yellow, stylized lab coat, he retrieved a business card, and placed it on the desk in front of Bronson.

"Sheriff, I would like you to see this man," Pat said. "He's a doctor. He's very professional, and I think he can help you with your...issues."

* * *

(The Red Max w/ Dr. Spring)

This time, Stone simply paced slowly behind the Red Max's chair, while the German sat nervously.

"Okay, Red. Where were you, really, last night?" Stone asked. "That ghost gave us one sweet tip. We went through the hotel's security cameras in the parking lot. Someone that matches your appearance was recorded walking and crouching around Dastardly's car. C'mon. What's really going on, Red? You caught Dick getting into your wienerschnitzel stash, huh? Or maybe it was just payback for what happened in Nevada."

Red's nervousness was quickly stripped away by righteous, angry defensiveness. "Nein! What happened in Nevada was different. I acted only in self-defense by shooting his Drone down, and nothing more!"

Stone pressed the attack after seeing Red's reaction. "Face it! He tried to blow you up, so you decided to return the favor!"

Red lashed out in irate German.

Stone stepped back at the tirade, trusting neither the moment, or the pilot's speech, simply because he didn't understand it.

"HEY, SPEAK AMERICAN!" Bronson yelled back, more nervous, himself, than angry.

Red ignore him and continued in angry, machine-gun German.

Stone leaned out of the interrogation room, and asks anybody within earshot, outside, "Does anybody here speak German?"

Among the deputies and Racers milling about, Marcie raised her hand modestly.

"Ugh! What are you still doing here, Marjorie?"

"Marcie," she wearily corrected him. "I take German in high school. I could translate for everyone, to smooth things out."

"Fine! You do that." he conceded, as she returned to the room. "And if I don't like what I hear, he's gonna spend time in the pokey."

He glared at Red. "Got that? Lying to me is verboten."

"Dummkopf!" the pilot growled.

"Gesundheit," Stone answered back.

Red began to speak his mother tongue, again, but in a calmer, slower tone, for Marcie's benefit.

Marcie spoke up. "He says that if you will not respect him, he will not respect you by speaking English."

Stone smirked. "Ha! Shows what he knows, I've got _you_ to translate, now." He addressed the pilot again. "Now, where were you last night?"

Red explained in German.

"He was with some of the Ant Hill Mob at a sports bar called _Dugouts_," Marcie interpreted. "The bar was showing highlights of past races on TV, and he and the Mob were telling tales to the patrons throughout the night."

"What time did they get home from the bar?"

"He says that he doesn't remember," she told him. "He lost track of time."

Stone answered for him. "The producer's assistant said that he dropped you and the short stacks off at the hotel at around eleven. The timestamp of the camera footage was twelve thirty-five."

Marcie translated. "He says that he was asleep by then."

Stone gave an annoyed sigh. "Well, the camera doesn't lie. Red Max, you are placed under arrest for the suspected killing of Dick Dastardly."

Red spat Teutonic curses at Stone, while the nearby deputy placed his wrists in handcuffs, and led him out of the room.

Stone looked at the German suspiciously. "What did he say?"

"Something I can't repeat in front of your kids," Marcie answered matter-of-factly. "Look, we all saw what happened to Dick Dastardly, Sheriff. But, why put the Red Max in jail with nothing more than circumstantial evidence, at best?"

Stone favored her a weary look of his own. "What are you, his lawyer? Look, when the ghost of the guy who just blew up, flies over, and points to another guy, saying "The Red Max destroyed me!", that's cause enough for an arrest, in _my_ book. But, just so you don't think I'm a complete idiot,"

_Too late_, she thought with a smirk.

"I had this Red guy's car checked," he continued. "Sure enough, the lab boys discovered a radio detonator under the hood, with his fingerprints all over it."

"And you don't find this ghost telling you to check that one and only car, the least bit suspicious?" she asked. Stone leaned back in his chair and put his feet, noisily, on the desk.

"It's like I told the reporters," he told her. "the lab boys found chemical traces of an explosive, the remains of a radio receiver, and DNA matching what was left of that Dastardly guy in the car. Sound like an open-and-shut case to me."

Marcie gave up trying to convince the man to dig deeper into this case, so she tried a new tact. She sarcastically asked, "So, Sheriff, when you finish filling in your police report, will it have the word _ghost_ in it?"

Stone bristled at that. The very notion that the sheriff of a large Californian town believed in the existence of the supernatural was just not manly.

"Let me ask you something, Molly."

"Marcie."

"If someone just came up and did all of your homework for you, would you complain about it? Or would you thank your lucky stars that somebody out there was _thoughtful _enough to make your job a whole lot easier for you, and asked for nothing in return?" he calmly asked.

Marcie raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Even if my homework turned out to be wrong?"

Stone dragged his feet, literally, this time, across the desk, and sat up, annoyed. "See that's the problem with you. You can't compare homework to police work. The two are completely different things!"

Marcie sighed, ignoring the man's facepalm-worthy lapse in memory, and stayed on topic. "Just don't close the case yet, Sheriff. I don't think camera footage alone is going to _solve_ this."

"Thinking's got nothing to do with it," he said. "He's guilty."

"He might not be, Sheriff! He could very well be innocent," she argued. "And he'd probably tell you, himself, if you weren't being such a blowhard." Then she covered her big mouth, knowing that she was already too late.

The sheriff stood up, angrily, his full height and solidity of body, imposing.

"That's it, missy. You may be a fair-to-average babysitter, but you're not going to waltz in here, and tell me how to do my job. You wanna talk to him so much? I can arrange that."

"I'm pretty sure that's not lega-" Marcie quietly started to say, but was ignored.

Bronson looked down on her, like a king pronouncing sentence. "For being such a smarty-pants, you can be my guest in the cooler, with him, for a while, until I decide to either call your father, you learn to respect the authority of my station, or my wife yells at me to let you out because of wrongful arrest, WHICHEVER COMES FIRST!"

* * *

Above the otherwise beautiful skies over Crystal Cove, there was a patch of space where no birds flew. Unless one was a ornithologist and studied the flight patterns of such birds native to that area of the state, no one ever looked up and paid any attention.

Nevertheless, birds _avoided_ it.

With the russet colors of sunset growing on the horizon, a small patch of sky, too far to be noticed, was sporting swirling, turbulent colors that actively clashed with the coming hues of dusk.

And only a lonely spy satellite in orbit took a passing interest in the fact that the patch sat stationary above the collective, geographical positions of the Rogers' and Blakes' mansions, and the Chiles' and Dinkleys' homes.

* * *

Marcie leaned against the bars of her holding cell, wondering how she was going to explain to her father that his only daughter was a jailbird, if, or when Bronson called him. She only hoped that this would first and last time she spent time in there.

"Vhat are _you_ in for?" asked a thickly accented voice from the neighboring cell that she had no trouble recognizing.

"Impersonating a police officer," she quipped. That earned a welcome chuckle from the German pilot.

"I heard vhat you said in der room," he said. "Danke. Thank you."

Marcie smiled lopsidedly. "No problem," she said quietly. "The sheriff says that you put that detonator in your car."

Red sat in a slouch on his cot. "I promise you, I didn't."

Marcie slowed herself down. She was just bounced into jail for her belief in his innocence. Maybe it was based on her personal annoyance of the sheriff's blinding incompetence, but she jumped into the water with both feet, nonetheless.

And yet, it might not be for naught. She could use the time, and this access, to back up that belief, and maybe do what she could to help him.

_Time to sink or swim_, she told herself.

"Why don't you tell me what happened, say the last time you saw Dick," Marcie said, her mind ready to retain everything said. "Did he say anything, or do anything that seemed strange to you?"

"Vhy? Do you think _you_ can figure out what happened?" he asked warily.

"I might."

"No," Red told her, soberly. "I don't vant you getting caught up in all of this."

Marcie shrugged off his caution. "Technically, I already am, since I'm in here. But, for the sake of conversation, just tell me what happened."

The German sighed at her stubbornness. "You're going to keep at it until I talk, aren't you?"

"Maybe."

"Alright," he sighed in defeat. What could it hurt? She couldn't possibly do anything about his mess, and it would pass the time well enough. "Der last time I talked to Dick was about a few veeks before ve came here."

"I vas in mein workshop, vorking elbow-deep in der Haybaler. Dick had come over, and I thought he vas going to give me grief about the Nevada race. I vas mistaken. He told me that there vas no hard feelings about it. That I acted in self-defense, as if I needed him to tell me that, and so forth. I thanked him for being understanding, but told him that I vas too busy to talk right then. He said all right, and he left."

"What were you working on?" asked Marcie.

"Standard installation of new equipment from Sundial. A signal booster for mein radio. Pretty routine."

"Do you work without gloves on?"

"When I'm working on der car."

"So, you weren't wearing them that day?"

"Nein, but I get so busy, that I sometimes lose track of what I put in mein car."

"That might have been what he or she wanted."

"Who? Der person who sought to discredit me?"

"Yep."

"But, vhy?"

"I haven't the foggiest. But, I'll ask around when I get out."

"One more thing," he added. "At the parade, after I talked to you, someone tried to contact me through mein radio. Vhen I tried to reply, that vas vhen der Mean Machine exploded."

"That could mean something," she mused.

Her attention was called away by the sound of heavy keys jangling outside the cells. A deputy walked into the holding area selecting the proper set to the cells. He came up to Marcie's.

"Okay, Fleach," the deputy said, opening the door, "You're free to go."

"So, the governor got my letter? I guess the sheriff had a change of heart," she surmised.

"Not really. You owe your early release to dinner."

Marcie looked quizzical. "Dinner?"

"Yep. Sheriff took off a little early today. Said the family's having pork chops, tonight, so, out you go."

Marcie stepped out and took a stretch. "Ah, parole, the other white meat."

"Take care, Marcie," Red said, watching her from his cot. "It vas nice talking to you."

Marcie turned to see him through the bars, and couldn't help seeing a poor, unwanted animal waiting for the euthanasia. It both depressed her, and strengthened her climbing resolve.

"We talk again, soon, sir. Count on it."

* * *

The block where City Hall stood was relatively quiet that sunset. It gave Marcie time and solitude to think while she walked along the sidewalk towards the spot of Dastardly's demise.

There was no true rhyme or reason for her returning to the crime scene, just a desire to see the spot again, hoping that it would stimulate some increased brain activity, and lead her to a answer.

But the street was still, with few people walking its length at this time of day. Apart from some telltale fragments of headlight and shattered windshield littering the curbs nearby, there was little to indicate that a car blew up in the streets. The police and forensic teams saw to that, even having the wreck towed to a lab facility, elsewhere.

_Wishful thinking on my part_, she thought, looking at the drought of clues before her. _Nothing I would find that the forensic teams wouldn't have, already. Better go home._

She walked past City Hall, and when she reached the corner, Marcie saw a portly redheaded boy with huge glasses and bigger braces, coming in her direction from around the same corner.

"Hey, Marcie," the boy exclaimed, carrying what looked to be a metal detector across his sloped shoulder, like a hobo, its sensor high in the air behind him.

"Hi, Jason," Marcie waved half-heartedly. She was surprised to run into him, here, of all places, but she was focusing on the task of solving the problem that vexed her, with a frustrating tease.

"So, what brings you here?" Jason asked, meeting up with her on the corner. He tilted his head towards the detector. "I'm just bringing this old doodad home from my uncle's repair shop."

"I was following the Wacky Racers' procession route to figure things out," Marcie explained, just as simply.

"You heard what happened to the Double Zero?" Jason asked.

"Oh, yeah. I was right in the thick of it. Had a talk with the prime suspect, too. The Red Max."

Jason scrunched his nose in confusion. "The Red Max? Why would he try and do Dick Dastardly in?"

"Why, indeed?" she concurred. "You need any company?"

"Sure. The bus stop is just up the street."

They crossed the street, walking along the direction of the ill-fated route, the same direction the Mean Machine was attempting to go, before the end.

"Hopefully, sometime tomorrow, I will have passed my driver's test, and taking buses will be a thing of the past," said Marcie. Then, an electronic squeal startled her.

"What-Is that detector _on_, Jason?"

Jason stopped by one of the thin, decorative trees that were planted on the curb of the block, taking off the unwieldy device.

"Sorry, I guess I had it on the whole time," he said, just as the device began to make even more noise than before.

"Huh?" He waved the machine experimentally by the tree, and the noise increased somewhat. "What's up with this tree?"

Marcie could see nothing metallic hung on the tree's lean trunk, leaving only one possibility.

"Give me a boost up the tree," Marcie said to him.

"What? Do I _have_ to?"

"I left my fork lift at home, otherwise I'd boost _you_." she reasoned.

"Okay," he said, putting the detector down and remaining bent over, grabbing the tree. Marcie carefully clambered on Jason's broad frame, then pulled herself up on one of the branches under the canopy.

Locking her thin legs around the trunk, she used one of her arms to reach blindly up into the canopy. After a few moments of probing, her hand bumped into something hard, but not wooden. Grabbing it, she carefully pulled out a badly twisted piece of electronics gear.

Letting it fall to the sidewalk, Marcie fished around the inside of the canopy again, this time, she was rewarded with another mangled component.

"Is that another one," huffed Jason. "Why is there junk in the tree?"

From her height, Marcie looked out onto the intersection, and could still see the discoloration from the bomb blast.

"Look where we are," she told him.

Craning his nonvisible neck towards the same intersection, he quickly understood.

"That's where the Mean Machine exploded," he said. "Are these parts from the car?"

"Looks like it," Marcie said from above, not believing her luck. "We better see if there are any more around."

After being let down, Marcie and Jason used the metal detector to sweep every foot of that side of the block, with methodical slowness. Once they were done, they crossed the street to the opposite block, and slowly swept that side, as well.

When all was said and done, the two teens had amassed enough pieces, that their commonality in appearance would suggest that they belonged to a larger whole. At least, a whole that could only be discerned by rough assembly.

"So what do we do with all of this?" Jason asked her, as he looked down at the pile of parts. "Take it to the police?"

"I don't think the police, or at least, its sheriff, would know what to do with this," Marcie said. "I think we should hold on to this stuff for a while. I heard in school that you're pretty good around electronics and machines."

Jason bowed his head in modesty. "Well, I don't want to brag..."

"Good," she said. "I'm going to get a bag and take these pieces home with me. I'll analyze them to see if they did, indeed, come from the Mean Machine."

"How?"

"I'll check them for traces of explosive on their surface. When I'm done, I'll bring them to you, so you can find out what they were, or what they were a part of."

"But, Marcie, why?" He whined. He certainly didn't remember volunteering for anything, and the last thing he wanted to do was get into something that would get him in trouble with his doting, overprotective mother.

"Because we have to solve this mystery," Marcie said simply, finally embracing her choice of action.

Jason couldn't believe what he was hearing from this weird girl. "What? _We?_"

And while they talked/argued, a figure, hidden in the shelter of City Hall's main entrance's archway, studied them quietly.


	4. 4

_4~_

"Mom, can I have that XP-28 motherboard?" Jason asked.

"We'll see, honey," Mrs. Wyatt told him. "Right now, though, go look for the those batteries that are on sale, and I'll go get some of those lubrication pumps that we need."

"Okay, Mom."

As they parted ways, Jason took in the space and convenience of the SmartyMart in Crystal Cove and thanked Heaven for it.

He waddled in happy anticipation, pushing his shopping cart from one wide, bountiful aisle to the next. Here, was a big box store he could truly appreciate, the only chain of its kind that catered to scientists and engineers, young and old, amateur and professional.

The selection, alone, made him drool, and although he had never suffered from Mad Scientist Syndrome, he could bet the farm that there was enough parts and supplies in this one store, to build a fair sized army of war robots, with enough left over to build a reasonably large recon force.

A wonderful scenario that carried him through his search for the battery aisle.

"Man, I never get tired of coming here," he said to himself. "This place is so huge, a noob would get lost in here, easy. Good thing greeters give every customer a GPS tracking card before they come inside."

He made a turn and cut through the computer parts section of the store, going through the motherboard and memory chip aisle. It was then that the temptation to stop and look at one motherboard in particular, took hold of him.

"I can't wait to get my hands on that XP-28. It's gonna look so sweet in my new robotics system. Maybe I can get even better performance if I overclocked the sucker. Yeah, that'll do it," Jason fantasized.

A stray thought concerning time made his remember his mother, and the errand he was given. With inner difficulty, Jason tore his attention away from the motherboard and slowly walked until he reached the power supplies section of SmartyMart.

Waddling deeper into the section, he passed various sized and assigned batteries, until he finally reached the aisle that held row upon laden row of double A batteries. The right battery, however, that wasn't the kind he wanted, product-wise.

Below the racks of hanging cardboard and plastic sheltered batteries, were entire packs, sixty batteries deep, stacked on shelves, in rows of four. These were on sale, and he hauled up as many pack as his stamina would allow.

As he bend down to grab another pack, a tiny two-battery pack fell of its rack, and beaned him on the head. He looked up, holding his head, to favor the impact. No one was there.

Returning back to his shopping, Jason bent over again, and again, he was pelted by some more falling mini-packs from racks. Looking up in annoyance, Jason saw no one.

"Okay, whoever is hitting my with batteries. This is not New York. Cut it out!"

No one snickered, or confessed, or said anything. No one was there.

He bent down to continue, and, suddenly, an unearthly wail came from above Jason and the aisle, itself.

Jason straightened up and swept his eyes upward to see the ghost of Dick Dastardly circling overhead, his wrathful, translucent eyes holding fast on the pudgy boy.

"Give me the parts, so I may rest!" the ghost howled. "Give me the parts, or you'll _never_ rest!"

Jason backed away from his shopping cart, and when some patrons overhearing what was happening in a adjacent aisle, looked over at the ghost and fled, he did the same.

Up one chaotic aisle and down the next, the phantom pursued the round boy all over that section of the vast store. From above, it looked like the reenactment of some decades-old arcade game.

Jason made a hard right and charged for the main exit, leaving scattered, terrified people in his panicked wake. If he could make it outside, he figured, he might be able to lose it in the crowded parking lot.

The ghost, however, was faster, and cut him off before Jason could get through the check-out aisle.

Jason backed off and retreated back into the depths of the store, desperate for someplace to hide, the ghost, smartly flying just high enough to keep the butterball in his sights.

The boy ran as fast as he could towards two large, swinging doors in the rear of the store, away from the highway of aisles.

Crashing through them, he found himself in the store's immediate storage area. Stacks and stacks of boxes filled the area, perfect for laying low. He headed for a stack he could hide behind, then gasped when he saw the ghost slip in between the doors when they swung back in.

Jason kept his eyes on the apparition. It was already in the room with him, simply turning and running further inside wouldn't lose it.

Dick's translucent face was a mask of anger and annoyance as he floated closer to the frightened boy. Jason, for his part, backed away in equal measure.

Jason, his escape option diminishing with every foot of the ghost's approach, opened his fear-dried lips in a last-ditch effort to try and reason with Dick, or, at least, talk him out of his attack.

"Wh-What do you want?" Jason asked, nerves jangling.

"_Where are the parts to my car?_" Dick intoned in a hollow whisper. "_Who keeps me from my rest?_"

"W-Well, from what I understand, the police t-took the Mean Machine to some lab to be examined," Jason squeaked as he continued to back away.

All that got him was a anguished roar from Dick, who closed the distance even more, hands clenching for an attack.

"_No! My car is not complete!" _he yelled. "_My parts are missing! I cannot rest without them! WHERE ARE THE REST?_"

With that, Jason's nerves broke. "Marcie! Marcie Fleach has them!" he cried. "I swear, I don't want to keep you from your rest! I know what it's like to miss bedtime! I didn't want to have anything to do with this! _Mama_! "

"_Where is Marcie Fleach?_"the ghost asked with clear menace.

"I-I don't know! She-She said that she had a driver's test to go to tomorrow! T-That's all I know!"

If Dick was satisfied with the information, Jason couldn't tell. The ghost simply straightened up and gave a goosebump-inducing wail, heading directly for the terrified Jason.

Giving a scream that would have rivaled the ghost's, Jason scrambled away from the spirit, backing into the high stack of boxes he wanted to hide behind.

The stack teetered, swayed, and then collapsed, like a badly played game of Jenga. The boxes avalanched around and on top of Jason, burying him, and stealing his sight away into the dark.

* * *

Marcie walked up the walkway of the Wyatt residence, awkwardly hefting the box of mysterious parts in her arms, and wishing for the tenth time that she could _drive_ to Jason's house, instead of going by bus and walking.

She put the box down on the welcome mat and rang the doorbell, hoping that Jason would use his mechanical acumen to help put this mystery to bed quickly.

The Red Max wasn't her favorite Racer, she would admit, but the events of the crime didn't sit right with her. They seemed more planned _against_ Max, than by him. And so, by that thinking, he deserved to be proven innocent, or, if worse came to worse, guilty, completely, before the Sheriff's visited his cockeyed brand of justice on him.

She heard the door unlock finally and saw it open a crack. A shivering, bespectacled eye peeked out, saw Marcie, and then the door closed again.

"Jason?" she asked. "Is that you? What's wrong?" This was deeply odd. Why would he want to keep her away from her?

"Oh, nothing, Marcie," he lied through the door. "Nothing's wrong. Nothing, at all."

This was getting dumb fast. She didn't come all this way to play games. She knocked on the door, testily.

"C'mon, Jason, what's wrong? Open the door."

"I can't, Marcie," he said. "I, uh, my mom wants me for something."

"Jason, take the box," said Marcie, weary of this nonsense. "I already finished my analysis on them. They had explosives residue all over them, so they came from Dick Dastardly's car."

"That's what I was afraid of," Jason sighed fearfully.

"What do you mean?" Marcie asked. Was something happening concerning the case already? Things were moving fast.

"Dastardly's ghost caught up with me at SmartyMart, and told me that we disturbed his rest by collecting those parts, " he told her. "He said that he wants them back, so he can rest in peace. Then he buried me under some boxes."

Marcie looked at this news with surprise and skepticism. Surprise that the ghost would appear again, this time because of them. And skepticism, because Marcie had never really believed in spirits, or rather, she never believed in spirits _haunting the Earth_. Once a person died, the spirit departed into the afterlife. That was it. There shouldn't be any mundane reason for it to stick around.

"Humph," she scoffed pedantically. "Even if the presence of the supernatural _is_ manifesting itself in some way, I would think that we would be doing it a favor by trying to solve his death, while at the same time, trying to prove the Red Max's innocence, which we can't do unless you let me in, _you jellyfish_!"

On the other side of the door, Jason relented, and it slowly opened once more.

Jason moved aside to let her to enter, looking more than a little cowed. "Okay, you don't have to be so bossy. I'm sorry, Marcie. I just never seen a ghost before."

Marcie stepped into the foyer, carrying the box. "Where do you want this?"

"You can take it to my room," he said in a low voice. "I don't want Mom to know about this. Follow me."

She followed him through the house quietly, then stopped when they reached a closed door. Jason opened his bedroom door and walked in.

Marcie followed him in. It wasn't often that she had the chance to enter a boy's bedroom, so before she put the box down, she gave the room a quick perusal, gauging the room by the occupant.

Well-lit, somewhat orderly, displaying his PC and personal belongings, as well as various electronic devices, both bought and created, showcasing his love of technology.

A rounded object, protectively covered by a sheet, caught her attention.

"Where did you get this? It looks like one of Dick Dastardly's Drones," she asked, looking underneath the sheet.

"I found it in the back of SmartyMart, after I dug my way out from under those boxes. It's probably just a promotional item for the Wacky Races and it fell out of one of them."

She was about to ponder something aloud, but before she could, something else had caught her eye.

The box dropped out of her hands, and hit the floor with a clunk.

"What is _that_?" she asked suspiciously.

Dominating a wall nearby, were a large collection of photos, haphazardly taken, and displayed, of Velma Dinkley.

Jason approached Marcie from behind. "Oh, you like? This is my shrine to Velma. My little tribute to her awesomeness. Even though she's not here, I'll always have a piece of her, here, in my room," he explained proudly.

Marcie hardened from the inside, but managed to sound cordial. "Looks like you have several pieces of her in your room. Cute. Creepy, but cute."

Jason raised an eyebrow in suspicion, as well. He didn't like this negative review of his work. "What do you mean?

Marcie gave a cold, condescending smile to dismiss the issue. "Nothing, nothing. I just know Velma better than you, and she rarely said anything about you. I just thought it was cute that you thought you had something in common with her, that's all."

"I do!" Jason said, defensively. "We were in the same robotics club in school, and...well, I can't think of anything at the moment, but we're super-tight!"

Marcie scoffed. "Well, lucky for me, my _long_ friendship with Velma is strong enough that I don't need to be a stalker with a crush about it."

"Wh-What do you mean?" Jason asked, his voice defensively climbing in register. "She may be some long-time _acquaintance_ of yours, but Velma is _my_ best friend. What does some socially awkward test-tube jockey like _you_ know of her?"

"_Socially._.." Marcie thought about doing swift and heinous things to part of his anatomy with her foot, but she needed his expertise with electronics too much to spend any more time in Sheriff Stone's holding cell again. So, she opted for angrily poking a thin finger into his chest.

"Listen to me, you beach ball-shaped electrician," she growled in his round face. "I've known Velma _far_ longer than you! We first met in science camp when we were seven years old, and actually stopped a criminal, masquerading as a councilor, that was using sound to control animals. While other girls gave each other friendship bracelets, V and I gave each other the encryption keys to our E-diaries. We've been thick as thieves ever since. We know _everything_ about each other. We attended the Tri-State Olympiad of Science every chance we could, and when we were old enough, we've became partners in it. And won. Every time."

Jason, shaken by the knowledge of the depth of their friendship, and Marcie's sudden aggressiveness, countered weakly. "So? _I_ could've been her partner...if she ever came around and asked me."

Marcie sneered pityingly. "She wouldn't, of course. My V wouldn't waste her time with someone she may have met in school. She would want to work with, and _be_ with, someone she trusts and knows implicitly. That would be me."

"Oh, yeah?" Jason challenged, puffing up. "Well...when she comes back from her trip, we can ask her who she likes better, you, or her _boyfriend_?"

Marcie's expression changed as quick as throwing a switch. "Boyfriend? _You_? Ha!" she laughed derisively. "V's got better taste than to settle for someone like you."

"And how do _you_ know?" he asked hotly.

Marcie answered with equal passion. "I just know, that's all! She's _my_ best friend, and all the creepy shrines in the world won't change that."

Now it was Jason's turn to look condescending. "You think you understand Velma, Marcie, but you don't," he said. "She's a flower, as delicate as the crystalline structure of dihydrogen oxide at its freezing point, and if she had anything to do with you, it had to be out of pity. You shouldn't let the idea of me having a crush on Velma rattle you."

"With a body like yours, "_crush_" and "_rattle_" come with the territory," Marcie shot back.

Jason staggered inwardly at that. Fat jokes were where he understandably drew the line. Time to fight fat with unpopularity.

"Err! Y'know, you should stick with Petri dishes and centrifuges, Marcie," Jason advised coolly. "Things that you understand, but can't love you back."

Marcie remained unflappable, but only outwardly. She was no stranger to the torture of loneliness. "And you should stick with things that _you_ understand, you _planet_. Burgers, fries, and a scale that's set back about eighty pounds."

"Hey!" Jason cried out in surprise. More because what she had said was, incredibly, true, than because of him feeling that she might have hit below the belt.

Marcie turned and walked calmly to the bedroom doorway, certain as he was, that she didn't care if Jason's mother had heard them arguing.

"You're right," she frostily amended. "I should've said two hundred. I'll call you tomorrow to see how you're coming along with assembling those clues. I'll show myself out."

Irritated, she left the bedroom, and then, the house, with a petulant, resentful Jason, standing in her wake.

* * *

"C'mon, Dad!" Marcie yelled from the bottom of the stairs, the next day. "It's here! It came!"

Winslow Fleach walked down the stairs to meet his daughter in the foyer, giving her a wry smile. Her first car, he thought. She's growing up so fast.

"Okay, I'm here," he said. "So, Eleanor finally pried her fingers off of a car, for once. I didn't think you had enough money, yet."

Marcie sported a sly smile. "I got her to bring down the price."

"Today's the big day, huh?" said Winslow, thankful that he didn't have to spend any more time in the DMV for his daughter's behalf.

"Yes! My last road test," Marcie beamed. "I pass this, and that driver's license is mine."

"Remember, Marcie," her father told her. "You'll only be getting a provisional driver's license when you pass. It won't be the real thing until you're eighteen."

"Which is just a year away. Don't worry, Dad. Besides, it won't matter to me if it's provisional or not, as long as I can drive," assured Marcie. "Now, are you ready to check out my convertible, at last?"

"Wow, you got a convertible?" Winslow said wistfully. "I remember my first convertible. Ah, what a machine, a real cruiser, she was."

"Well, this time, Dad, I've got me a cruiser of my own," Marcie crowed, as she reached for the doorknob to open the front door.

"Ta-daaa!"

She opened it with a flourish, arm outstretched to present her new car to Winslow. He stood in the threshold, in slight shock.

Parked on the curb in front of their house was, off-white and dinged up in the full light of day, a convertible, just as Marcie said.

"A _VW_ convertible?" Winslow mused to himself, almost letting his personal disappointment in her choice of car come through in his voice.

Not that Marcie had even noticed. She ran over to her car and showcased it, like an ex-model in a game show.

"A Volkswagen Beetle _Karmann_ Convertible," she proudly exclaimed. "Limited Champagne Edition. This baby's got a 1584cc electronic fuel-injected engine and 4-speed manual transmission. This is a _very rare _Beetle, Dad. Only about 1000 of these were ever produced in 1978. It's a classic! So, what do you think?"

Winslow appraised the car silently, looking up and down its dented, dated, buggy length, then he looked at the proud, happy face of his daughter. This was her car, her very _first_ car. She would love it, and care for it, as he did his very first clunker. He couldn't help but be happy for her.

"It's a beautiful car, Pumpkin," he told her sincerely. "A real cruiser."

* * *

The balding instructor looked down at her file on his clipboard. He took out his pen, clicked the button on its end, and prepared to score.

"Okay, Miss Fleach," he said. "You may start the car."

Marcie eased the instructor's car out and away from the precincts of the DMV, and entered the sparse traffic of the late morning, of which the teen was grateful.

Hours invested in Driver's Ed, testing, and driving time logged was paying off for Marcie in spades. Her hands and feet were steady, her eyes, alert. All of her senses were attuned to the environments of this machine, inside and out.

"Good spacing," said the instructor, when Marcie stopped on a red light, and didn't get so close to the car ahead of her that she could see what year sticker was on the license plate.

"Thank you," she said, keeping her eyes on the cars ahead.

"You've had your provisional permit for about six months now?" he asked.

"Yes, sir, " she answered. "And my fifty hours of behind-the-wheel training, as well, sir. Including my ten hours at night."

"Very good. Green."

"Sir?"

"The light's green, Miss Fleach."

"Oh!" She put easy pressure on the accelerator, and the car proceeded again.

"Turn on this corner, coming up," the man told her.

She made the turn, but not before putting on her turn indicator, which the instructor noticed quickly.

"Good," he said. "Now, remember, if you pass and receive your provisional license, you are not allowed to drive between the hours of 11 p.m. and 5 a.m."

"Yes, sir. And I'm not allowed to have anyone under 20 in my car, unless I'm with a licensed driver who's over 25 years old," Marcie finished.

"Correct. It's good to see that you've been studying. Turn here."

She turned into a smaller street and drove on until the instructor ordered her to turn again on a side street that led her back to the main concourse.

She waited until the light was green, checked both directions of traffic, took her opportunity to go, and then cautiously entered the main street flow.

Marcie gave a secret smirk. This was easy. Confidence, coordination, and memorization, that's all it took to drive this smoothly. A mischievous gleam shined from her eyes at the thought of revving the engine, after waiting for the next light to change, just for kicks, to rankle the little bureaucrat sitting beside her.

She looked over at the man, so far, marking positively in his clipboard, and thought better of it, dismissing the prank and wondering, instead, how much of Eleanor's daredevil spirit was rubbing off on her after being invited to some of her illegal street races under her father's nose.

She dismissed that thought, as well, bringing up another that brought a very noticeable smile on her face.

Sooner or later, Velma was going to come home, and Marcie happily swore to welcome her back in grand style. As far as any local was concerned, you couldn't live on the coast of California, and _not_ have a convertible heading towards the beach. It just wasn't done.

And a day with Velma, with the top down, the wind blowing through her cute, short hair, some Hex playing on the stereo, and cruising along the curving highways of Crystal Cove to the beach, would be perfect.

All that was missing was the perfect swimsuit to show off to her, when they got there...

"Miss Fleach!"

Marcie snapped out of her daydream to see the rear of the foremost car coming up with uncomfortable speed.

Her foot flashed over to the brake pedal and the car skidded shortly, and noisily, to a halt.

While her mind screamed at her that she was stupid, with a capital _stupid_, Marcie glanced worryingly towards the bureaucrat, who quickly marked in the clipboard, and shook his head.

"Sorry, sir. It's a good thing the car's got good brakes," she managed to say, trying badly to lighten the moment.

"Yes, Miss Fleach, it is," the man said dryly. "I would hate to have to explain to the missus why I had a dashboard in place of my face. She likes my rugged good looks, you understand."

"Yes, sir," she said, downcast.

The noise of car horns sounding off in the distance made Marcie try to spy the action from the side view mirror. From what she could make out, some people were getting out of the cars behind her.

The first few people ran past the instructor's car and headed for the side streets on either side of the boulevard.

Marcie twisted in her seat, looking back through the rear window, to see what was going on, or who was chasing these people. She saw nothing but other cars behind her, either trying to turn around and get on the opposite lane to leave, or sitting tight where they were.

"I don't see anything, sir," she reported to the instructor. "Whatever it is, it's happening behind us."

"I'd be more concerned with you passing this road test, Miss Fleach," said the officious teacher. "Whatever's going on back there is not as important as what's going on in this car, at the moment."

The instructor looked down at his clipboard, preparing to write a personal comment concerning Marcie's driving, at present, when an irate ghost rushed up from the rear of the line of cars, on the passenger side.

"_Marcie Fleach! Where are my parts?_"Dick Dastardly's accusing yell rang in the instructor's ears, making the man throw up his pen in sheer fright, almost striking his eye.

She turned her attention to the ghost, while at the same time, the bureaucrat, having all the ghost he could stand, reached out and grabbed the steering wheel, while stretching his foot out to push it down on the accelerator, not caring if Marcie was prepared for it, or not.

"Hey! What are you doing?" Marcie yelled at him, wrenching control of the wheel again, and swerving the car to avoid hitting the rear of another.

"G-Gh-Ghost...in my...ear. Drive!" the frightened man blubbered in his seat. He turned in his chair to see Dick howl and give chase from above and behind.

Marcie drove up past the cars that waited for the light to change, and merged, like a reckless bull, into the traffic going across, causing a snag of cars in her wake.

"Where are you going?" wailed Marcie's passenger.

"I don't know," she said, cutting past a slow truck. "Let me know if he's still behind us."

The instructor glanced at the side view mirror, and squeaked when Dick banked around the same truck, flying low.

"He's behind us?" she asked, seeing a side street coming up.

"_Yes!_"

"Hang on!"

With a hasty turn that had them bouncing off the corner, Marcie pulled into the empty residential street, and, despite rules saying otherwise, floored it.

"Does this car have power windows?" asked Marcie.

"Yes," he answered. "Control's are on your door."

Daring to look down for a moment, she saw the group of four buttons set into the door's padded handle. Thankfully, the neighborhood was still clear of other cars or pedestrians.

"He's gaining!" the man reported in a panic.

With one hand steering, Marcie depressed both rear sets of buttons, lowering both rear passenger windows.

"We don't need ventilation!" cried the instructor, at a loss to what her plan was.

"No," she said. "but he might."

Switching hands, Marcie reached into her inside jacket pocket, clutched a handful of capsules, and held them out to the man. He took them.

"What are they?" he asked. "Pills?"

"Crush them in your hand, and then throw them in the back seat, " she ordered him.

He did as he was told. Immediately, thick gray smoke began to flow between clenched fingers. He massaged the smoke capsules in his fist to thoroughly crush their casings, and then dumped the mess in the rear.

The dark smoke expanded, filling the back and flowing out of the immediate rear windows, leaving a cloud of darkness trailing from the vehicle.

Dick flew headlong into the depths of the chemical fog bank, and when he emerged from the other side, they were gone.

He circled in a tight pattern, looking for signs of the car, but only saw half-visible trees and small houses from his high vantage point.

With a growl in frustration, he flew off.

He would have been more frustrated if he knew that he had passed his quarry, three houses back, parked in the driveway and obscuring the house there, in its smoke screen.

Marcie peeked out of the driver's side window, watching him zoom out of the neighborhood.

Marcie breathed relievedly. "Good thing he didn't see me back up," she whispered to herself.

Glancing over at her instructor, she saw that the man was shivering in a ball in his seat, his clipboard wedged tight between his upraised knees and his chest.

"I know that this is probably a bad time to ask," she said, hopefully. "but do you think I passed?"


	5. 5

_5~_

Bucky, the deputy who worked closest to Sheriff Stone, picked up the phone that rang on his desk, later that afternoon.

"Hello, Crystal Cove Police. Deputy Buchanan, speaking."

"Hi, there," said the distaff voice on the other end. "I'm going to be a teen driver soon, and I'm probably going to be in a lot of accidents. Where do I go when my car gets impounded by you guys?"

"Well, normally we'd bring it to our police impound lot," explained Bucky. "But with the Wacky Racers in town, Sheriff Stone had their cars brought over to Fortner's Impound while he questioned them."

"Are their cars still there?" asked the voice.

"No, they got them back when they were released. The only car that's still there is the Crimson Haybaler."

"Thanks," Marcie said, and then hung up.

"Wait. Who is this?" Bucky asked, when the conversation ended abruptly. He knew something just happened that he should have been on top of, but he found himself thoroughly confused.

"What just happened?"

* * *

Under the fluorescent lighting, amidst the shelves of machined parts, wiring, tools, electronic components, lubricants, and cast-off junk, Jason sat on his stool, and peered over the magnifying lamp, studying the tortured remnants of the car parts spread all over the work table.

He carefully took apart surviving housings and casings to see if there were any labels, stamps, or stenciling that would make identifying the components easier.

Like Marcie's lab, his family's workshop was a sturdy facility set up in the backyard, however, the projects that came out of here were mechanical and electronic in nature.

Jason had separated the smaller parts that were twisted by the explosion, and focused on the relatively larger pieces, of which, three were dominant.

"Why does this look familiar?" he mused, when he set aside a fist-sized motor, connected to the twisted end of what was left of a hinged metal arm.

He then looked at the other object, flat, boxy, and burned, with rainbow-colored wiring, melted at the ends, trailing out.

He brought the lamp in close to the edge of what looked like a label, or very thin metal plaque. The partial words "M recei," on top of the other partial words "Ode mod," were all that survived and all he could make out.

Putting that down, he picked up the last piece and studied it. There was a large lens at one end of it, dark and cracked, and the body of the device was ripped in half, the other end, lost.

"Well, it's a camera. That wasn't too hard to figure out," he surmised. "Wonder what it was doing in the car."

Looking inside, he examined the guts that remained. Narrow, half-melted motherboards and wiring, plastic and metal linkages, up front, rigged to small, self-lubricating motors.

"Looks like the servos made it, at least," Jason mused again. And then he froze.

"Servo!" he yelled aloud. "That's what the motor is, but to what? No, it's too big for windshield wipers. Heck, the Mean Machine has no wipers. And what does it all have to do "M recei. Ode mod?" What is that, a foreign language?" Then a though hit him. "Wait a minute."

He went back to the second thing in his investigation, the boxy, wired object.

Looking once more at the strange words on the plaque, he took his thumbnail and scrapped softly along the words, until he could see the words "receiver" on top, and "Pulse code," below.

"So, that's what it is!" Jason crowed. "It's either an F_M_, or an A_M_ radio _receiver_ with pulse code _modulation_!

The lights went out, and the workshop was in sudden darkness.

His cheer went away as he fumbled around the worktable, feeling for the emergency flashlight that hung off a hook above the table.

"Man, why do we always have electrical problems whenever one of us uses the workshop?" he groused. "I bet Edison or Tesla didn't have troubles like this."

Remembering where the light was hung, Jason reached for the wall above the table, just as light bloomed from behind him.

"Thanks, Mom," he sighed relievedly, as Dick Dastardly's ghost rose from the darkness of the floor. "Don't worry, I'll check the fuse box."

The ghost's menacing laughter boomed in the small building, and Jason spun to face the spirit, goggle-eyed.

_"Where are the parts to my car?" _Dick asked in a wail, blocking Jason's path to the doorway. _"Who keeps me from my rest?"_

"Not again," Jason sobbed, as he backed against the table.

_"No! My car is not complete!" _he yelled.

For the first time since running into the apparition, Jason didn't display abject terror in its presence. Confusion had taken its place.

"Huh? What about your car?"

_"My parts are missing!"_ the Racer cried out. _"I cannot rest without them! WHERE ARE THE REST?"_

Jason almost laughed with enlightenment. He heard every word back at SmartyMart, verbatim.

"Antarctica?" he said, experimentally. Then he waited a beat.

_"Where is Marcie Fleach?"_

Without another word, Jason scoped up a ratchet wrench, and flung it hard at the spirit of Dick Dastardly.

The wrench deflected off of the Racer's midsection, instead of passing through it, with a metallic thunk.

The ghost started the wail it gave when it charged Jason in the store, but now it resembled a croak of defeat, as the shade wavered, flickered, and finally winked out of existence, bringing back the deep dark.

Jason breathed easier. "That was weird, with a capital _weird_!" he sighed, fumbling forward for the doorway.

The door opened, releasing sunlight into the workshop.

Jason shielded his eyes from the sudden glare, and when he recovered, he looked to find a Drone hovering quietly, inches from his nose.

With a gasp, he leaped backwards and fell on his corpulent rump.

His mother stepped in from the backyard, looking down on her son, wondering why he was so jumpy lately.

"Jason, why are you playing with your souvenir Dick Dastardly Drone in the dark?"

Jason worked his way off the floor, and then reached out for the flying machine to turn it off. He saw a panel in the back. Reaching for a flathead screwdriver from the table, he soon pried the panel free, saw a fat button marked Off, and pressed it. The propeller slowed to a stop, and the inert Drone fell into his arms.

"Sorry, Mom. It's been a really crazy day," he said while he examined the "souvenir" more closely.

"Why was the Drone in here?" he asked. "I had it in my room."

"Well, it was covered up in that sheet and looked like a small animal sleeping under there, so I put in the workshop, where it would do no harm," she explained.

Her son rolled his eyes at that. Scaring him to death, and it was doing no harm.

"Thanks, Mom," said Jason.

"Your welcome, Sweetie," said Mrs. Wyatt. "Now, hurry up with what you're doing, so you can go and do your homework. Sundial is not the kind of place for slackers, y'know?"

Jason was confused. "Sundial?"

"Oh, I forgot to tell you. That man from Sundial called you again. Uh, Doctor...Spring, that's it. He wanted to talk to you. I think he might be interested in you for a future spot in that think tank," she said, walking back to the house. "I wonder if they have a summer internship?"

Alone again, Jason held the Drone in his hands, grateful that this part of the mystery was solved, at least.

"I gotta tell Marcie about this." he said to himself. "Right after I change underwear."

* * *

The chain-link fence surrounding Fortner's Impound, one of only two privately owned lots in town, developed a wide hole near a camera-blind side of the lot, courtesy of one of Marcie's acid vials.

Sporting an old domino mask from an erstwhile Halloween, Marcie was confidant that any camera that saw her moving in the lot, would not get a clear shot of her for identification.

Keeping low, she cruised like a shark between the lanes of econo-boxes, junkers, and the odd SUV, searching for one car in particular. One that would stick out anywhere, but an aeronautical museum.

Marcie stuck her head out from the middle of one lane and heard something that gave her pause.

Sleeping under the front bumper of the car that started the line up of cars on the right side of the lane she emerged from, was a large, lean dog. Curled up and dreaming, the guard dog kicked out absently, occasionally, threatening to wake himself up.

Marcie eased back into the shelter of the lane, then reached into her wool jacket to check if she had everything she needed for this venture.

Thin, green vials of acid, a penlight, a magnifying lens, Discourager capsules, a small ball of twine, a small roll of duct tape, a Swiss Army knife, a pair of tweezers, a thin, pointed metal probe that looked like a dental scrapping tool, and a plastic storage bag filled with tiny storage baggies for evidence collection.

_All there,_ she thought, _although, I might have done better to check before I came here._

Quietly, she backtracked her way out from between the cars and mentally plotted a new course through the lot.

Then, she spotted red from the edge of her vision. She turned to see what looked like an old bi-plane sitting in a rusty, weed-carpeted corner of the lot.

Creeping towards it, Marcie sighed in relief that she found the Crimson Haybaler without too much difficulty.

Wasting no time, she went to the front of the vehicle, carefully undoing the latches that held the Haybaler's hood closed, and then, with slow care, she opened the hood.

Marcie gave a moment to admire the complexity of the powerful motor block. It was as much a hybrid of technology as the rest of the aerocar. Jason would have been impressed.

She put her musings aside, and leaned into the depths of the Haybaler, penlight in hand.

Ignoring any and all hardware that was bolted, welded, or glued, Marcie concentrated her search only on components that were wired to the car in any way. Everything looked suspect. The battery, the motors to the windshield wipers, the air conditioning, every electronic device, even the horn was checked under her inquisitive eyes, as she parted conduits and blazed a trail deeper in that electrical jungle.

Then, behind a loose curtain of wiring, her light shined on something she hadn't seen before. A light gray metal box nestled far against the clutch and its scattershield.

Marcie reached for the device, going so far in, that her rear end was all that was visible and stuck in the air, while the rest of her squeezed and angled downward among the parts.

With her penlight held in her teeth, she gripped and pulled at the boxy object, shimmying it out of its hiding place. It finally came out, trailing wiring from its lower side.

Grunting, she bore her uncomfortable position to check the device from side to side. In tiny lettering on a small label, it proclaimed that it was, indeed, a transmitter.

Marcie sighed in frustration. If this was just a run-of-the-mill radio component, then where was the incriminating part? Where was the detonator that did the dirty deed? She began to ease the part back where she found it.

_Maybe the police already took it out, as evidence_, she thought glumly. If that were so, then it would be next to impossible for her to check it out for clues.

Her mind feebly tried to come up with alternative plans to find evidence that would exonerate the Red Max, when she spotted something on the boxy object that she found odd.

Running along the sides, close to the top of the component, Marcie could see a thin seam. At first, she thought it was from where the top of the transmitter was capped to the rest of the device by the manufacturer.

But, upon taking it out again, and inspecting it closer, she noticed that the top wasn't the exact same shade of gray as the rest of the part. It was slightly darker.

Grunting some more, she wiggled for some more comfort as she turned the device over in her hands, studying the seam. It didn't look clean, like it could have been, if the top had been machined into place.

Risking a fall into the engine assembly, Marcie reached into her inner jacket pocket for the magnifying glass.

Peering through it, she finally saw it. Along the seam, in random spaces, were hard, clear blisters. As if something had oozed from the tight space of the seam, then dried.

Setting the device aside, Marcie slid back out of the Haybaler, took out her metal probe, and one of her evidence baggies. Then, she took a deep breath, and dove back into the Haybaler's engine again.

Pulling the device out again, she propped it on a nearby car part, took the probe, and, while she held the baggie open, underneath, with her other hand, carefully scrapped around the seam, making sure to get a fair amount of the suspicious material into the baggie, along with some of the blisters, as well.

Then she backed herself out of the engine space, pocketed the evidence, straightened her clothes until satisfied, and turned to meet Dick Dastardly's ghost, balefully hovering above her.

Dick let out a sneering laugh, and Marcie waved her hands at him to keep quiet.

"Shhh! What are you trying to do? Wake up the dogs?" Marcie angrily hissed at him.

_"You mean like this one?" _Dick asked, pointing down, self-satisfied.

Marcie didn't even need to look down when she heard the low-frequency growl of the muscular, dark brown guard dog, slowly padding towards her, drool raining down from the exposed teeth.

Keeping her eyes on the beast, Marcie backed away slowly, making no quick or big arm movements to set the animal off.

She forced herself to remember the route she took to look for the Haybaler when she entered the lot, not daring to turn her head to navigate her way back to the hole she made in the fence, for fear that the head turn might be construed by the dog as sudden action on her part, leading to a fatal action on his.

And all the while, the ghost chuckled and floated, following along, while the dog stalked the retreating girl into the deadly range of the now-awake dog she avoided earlier, who stood, salivating, in front of the hole in the fence.

Marcie heard the growl of the dog behind her and froze, fear and desperation caressing her heart, icily.

Dick halted his slow procession with an air of satisfaction, when he saw Marcie caught between her possible killers.

He rose higher in the evening sky, laughing ever louder, and before he flew off into the distance, he crowed malevolently, _"Now, you'll pay!"_

"I wonder how Dad's gonna react when he finds out his only daughter was found in a dirty impound lot, mauled to death by dogs?" she asked to herself, in an effort to calm down, while she watched Dick depart. "I don't think he'd take it too well."

Slowly, she reached into her inside jacket pockets to look for her Discourager capsules, ready-to-break spheres filled with a pressurized combination of capsaicin, and artificially produced mercaptans, the active ingredient in skunk odor, that she would use to discourage pursuit and effect an escape.

She suddenly felt doubly discouraged, however, to find only one of the spheres in her pocket.

She took it out with a sigh, and rolled it in her fingers, thinking hard of a way to get past the dogs. Meanwhile, the dog in front of her kept advancing, driving her closer to his partner.

"Okay, Marcie, here's your dilemma," she pondered aloud, nervously, fighting against the encroaching terror she felt. "You have a killer dog behind you, and another, in front of you, and knowing that you might run into _dogs_ tonight, you only brought _one_ Discourager capsule with you. What do you do?"

The dog behind her snarled and began to walk to her, the two pack hunters closing the distance, eager to tear into her.

"This," she said, closing her eyes.

She held her breath, palmed the capsule in her hand, and then threw it down hard on the ground, by her feet, shattering the sphere open.

Marcie disappeared in a widening cloud of the worst smelling chemicals she had ever concocted.

Later on, in the night, passersby in the neighborhood wondered why the two dogs in Old Man Fortner's lot kept howling and whining in _marked_ discomfort...

* * *

The spectroscope s monitor flickered and gave a noticeable hum, an indicator of its advance age, but it quieted once Marcie gave it a sharp rap with her knuckles.

She raised the test tube she had been working with, observantly, softly swirling the clear liquid inside, to mix it and see its reaction.

When it ready, she stopped mixing.

Admitting a drop of the chemical into the spectroscope, she waited while the elderly machine broke down the substance into its constituent components.

In a few minutes, a graph flickered on the screen. What she saw surprised her.

_Ethyl-2-cyanoacrylate..._

"Super Glue?" she said to herself in amazement. Then, her cell phone chimed.

"Hello?"

"Marcie?" Jason's voice asked from his side. "I tried to call you earlier. Why didn't you pick up?"

"I was in the shower. What's up?"

"I figured it out!" he told her. "I know what the parts are."

Marcie congratulated herself for successfully trusting the task to him. "What are they?" she asked.

"Well," Jason began. "I sorted out the least pertinent ones from the pile, and chose three components that really sang to me, y'know?"

Marcie could feel the long-windedness come on. "Jason? Facts only, please."

"Sorry about that. A blown-out servo, a torn half of a camera, and a radio receiver."

Marcie raised a troubled eyebrow. "Regular cars had servos and radios. So do racing cars, but their radios would be for communication. If the camera was mounted to shoot exteriors for the show, when it raced, those parts could be standard for the Double Zero.

"But they weren't!" Jason said quickly. "This radio receiver had a pulse width modulator built in, and was wired to the _servo_, which means that it was getting signals from outside the car to control it. You won't believe this, Marcie, but someone rigged the Mean Machine to be a giant radio controlled car!"

Marcie, now raised a hopeful eyebrow. "And you said one of the parts was a camera."

"Yeah."

"If it was blown forward of the blast, it might've been mounted in the front of the car, somewhere. That way, the controller could see ahead of the car when he drove it," she conjectured.

"Well, that's not all," Jason said. "Remember that Drone I was keeping in my room? Well, a little while ago, I was visited by the Ghost of Racers Present."

That bit of news sidetracked Marcie. And after she had just escaped him, herself...

"Dick came at you, again?"

Jason gave a cocky chuckle. "Yeah, but this time, I showed him who's boss."

"What did you do?"

"I threw a wrench at him!" the boy said, proudly. "It didn't go through him, it just bounced off, and when all was said and done, it turned out that he was my Drone!"

Marcie shook her head, incredulously. A major break in the case. Tonight was full of surprises. "Are you sure, Jason?"

"Sure, I'm sure. I checked it out, and it didn't look the same as the ones Dick used in the Nevada race, because this one had a projector with a sweet, high definition, 360-degree, lens reflection system. Top of the line. I'm talking-"

"Jason!" Marcie yelled, reminding him of the need to be succinct. She wondered if people felt that way about her, sometimes.

Of course not, she thought, dismissing such a foolish notion from her mind.

"Oh, yeah," Jason said, sheepishly, then continued. "Well, the point is that that ghost is a fake! It's just an image projected around one of these modified Drones, being flown by remote control. Probably by the same someone who was controlling the Mean Machine. So...do we take what we have to the police, now?"

Marcie didn't answer for several seconds. She was deep in thought about what was the next move to make.

She tilted her head in the direction of the lab's front door. A sound from the backyard was heard. Then she said, "Not yet. Now, we follow up. I'm working on a lead on my end. Examine the Drone for more clues."

If she was worried that Jason would have balked at having to continue to help her in her investigation, she was surprised again to find that he was already way ahead of her.

"Well, I did take it apart, and I found a hard drive," he told her.

Marcie raised a fist in triumph and honest appreciation of the boy. "That's great, Jason! Access that hard drive, and we might just blow this case wide open!"

Jason actually sounded excited to hear that. "Really? Okay, will do! See ya later!" he said, and then hung up.

She put her phone away.

Remembering her run-in with Dastardly earlier, and the sound she had just heard, Marcie reached for the bat.

Opening the door cautiously, she peeked her head out of the doorway, bat held high. No one was seen in the backyard, so, she tip-toed out of the lab.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed that a patch of the ground was darker by the side of her lab, a ways from the front door.

Looking down, she saw that the turf by the wall was dug up, covering the otherwise, brighter grass.

"This was recent," she said to herself, crouched by the small mound, and feeling the moist earth pinched between her fingers.

As she stood up, Marcie saw a muddy stain on the wall. She would have ignore it, if not for the fact that the stain had a specific shape. A hoof.

"A hoof print?" Marcie pondered. That was curious. Unless someone had a goat in the neighborhood that she wasn't aware of...

Taking out her penlight, Marcie pointed it at the lawn, and saw that the mud had trailed away from the mound, and out in the direction of the path that ran past her house and led out front.

Taking measured steps, she followed the trail out onto the curb in front of the house. It continued down the street, and Marcie held a heated debate inside as to whether she should follow it further, leading her into a trap.

The relative proximity between her house and where the trail might end, made her decide to chance it and proceed.

Thankful that the streetlights provided enough illumination to see, without flashing her light and calling attention to herself, she turned off the penlight.

The mud was thinning, making it harder to track, but enough dirt laid before her that she followed until she finally reached where the specks of earth ended.

Marcie found herself staring a yard or two from the closed rear of a parked gray van.

Creeping as nonchalantly forward as she could, Marcie approached the front passenger window and took a sharp glance at it. No one was there, or in the driver's seat.

She was about to wonder what was in the van that had came from her backyard, when the booming sound of someone walking through the back of the van came forth.

"They know I'm here," she whispered to herself, fearfully.

It was only then, that she realized that the van was parked a fair distance from her home. If she tried to run now, she would be spotted and pursued, possibly caught.

However, if she could communicate to the would-be attackers that she was armed, they might hesitate, or even re-think the attack.

Gulping to keep her throat from drying, she brandished her weapon, and walked over to the rear with great trepidation.

Peeking around the van to see the closed rear van doors, she paused, puzzled. She swore that she heard someone coming out of the vehicle. Now, nothing.

Her curiosity getting the better of her, she stepped over to the doors, pondering what had happened, and by the time she remembered that she wanted to return home, it was too late.

From around the passenger side of the van, a glowing Dick Dastardly walked around to face a shocked Marcie Fleach.

Raising the bat in his direction, Marcie gave her warning, but didn't look at him directly. She looked around the immediate area, as if searching for someone hidden.

"Wherever you are," Marcie called out. "you should know that I know that this is just a Drone."

She waved the bat at Dick. "It's been modified to project an image of this ghost. It's not real."

Behind Marcie, the rear door closest to her swung open fast, and a strong arm reached out and clutched the startled girl's shoulder with such force, that the bat dropped from her hand.

She was pulled into the dark interior of the van, and then the doors slammed closed again. Then, suddenly, the van began to quake with the sounds and motions of hard, brutal struggle, and, strangely enough, pig squeals.

Then the van settled down and grew quiet again.

The doors opened, and Dick regarded the darkness inside the van with a warm smile.

"Was she a problem for you, my dear?" he asked.

A woman's voice with a deep southern drawl was heard coming out of that darkness.

"Whew! She was feisty, but no great shakes. She had nice hair, tho," she said, accompanied by the soft sound of bare feet padding towards the exit.

Those bare feet stepped out of the van, attached to the strong, voluptuous, frizzy-haired body of the female hillbilly, who rotated her right arm to work the kinks out, in satisfaction.

"Nuthin' like a little wrasslin' to put a gal in thuh mood fer sum..._mayhem_," Daisy Mayhem said with a rapacious grin.

She walked casually over to "Dick", held him close, and they kissed, deep and hard, while in the van, her patch-eyed, pet pig, Sooey, stood watch over a unconscious Marcie Fleach.


	6. 6

_6~_

"Idiots," the voice growled from the cell phone's speaker. "You told me that the kids were being led in the wrong direction with their investigation."

"Yes, they are," "Dick" sighed in his phone, as he sat in the van's driver's seat. He called soon after Daisy had her fun with Marcie, and wanted some advice on how to proceed with this little snag in the operation.

"Then why did Daisy Mayhem attack the girl?" the voice asked in a hiss.

"Dick" didn't know how long he didn't answer, his mind was too occupied with what the voice said. He left that little detail out of his report to protect Daisy.

"How did you know-"

The voice cut him off. "I have my sources."

Daisy, seated in the front passenger seat, heard everything through the phone, and wanted her say.

"Look here," Daisy called out to the phone. "ya don't have ta yell down his neck fer sumthin' I done did! I fergot thuh plan, dat's all. It's so durn complicated-like. It's my fault, if ya wanna yell at sumbody, not his!"

"Dick" put his hand on her shoulder, understandingly, to calm her.

"We agreed that it was the best course of action, since she saw Daisy," "Dick" admitted, seeing that there was no sense in lying to someone who already knew so much of what was happening, so closely.

"She wouldn't have seen your girlfriend, at all, if Miss Split Ends hadn't attacked her in the first place," the voice countered back. "Just another mess _I'll_ have to clean up."

"Dick" saw Daisy bristle from the corner of his eye. He brought up a hand to calm her down. He already had enough on his plate.

"No," he told the voice. "We'll clean this mess up, ourselves."

"How?"

"I'll answer that question with a question," "Dick" said, glancing knowingly at Daisy. After being together for so many years, she already knew what he wanted, and knew that she was more than capable of giving it to him. "How can there be a mystery, if there's no one around to solve it?"

* * *

In a dark, well-appointed hotel room, a man, sitting by a desk, hung up the phone.

In the shadows, he thought. He was getting close to his goal. To have his so-called "partners" trip him up before he reached the finish line was unacceptable.

"You were right," the man said from his desk, in the dimness. "He and the others can't be trusted to serve me without bungling everything in the process. Not to worry, though. I can see that you, my friend, have great foresight."

Stepping into the brighter half of the room, Mumbly stood in front of the desk and snickered sadistically.

"Betraying the others will make you an excellent partner in my most profitable enterprise, yet," the man said, satisfied.

* * *

For Marcie, realization came to her in stages.

First, she realized that her head hurt, then, that she was on the floor of her lab, then, that she was bound...well in duct tape, her hands, behind her back, a strip across her mouth, and a band of it, wrapped tightly around her ankles and knees.

Then, she noticed the wide-bottomed flask hanging above her. Tied to its neck was simple sewing thread that supported it and ran through metal eyes that were screwed into the ceiling, and below, to the lab's front door frame.

It looked like a trap to Marcie's increasing awareness, and upon seeing her wrestling opponent playfully pluck the thread running down one side of the doorframe, and then across it, at ankle level, she knew that it was.

Daisy Mayhem bent over by the threshold, testing the tautness of her tripwire, when she noticed Marcie stirring on the floor.

"Oh, yor awake, den, Sleepy Bones?" Daisy asked mockingly. "Thuh ol' Sowbelly Sleeper hold gets 'em ev'ry time, but I new ya'd wake up soon 'nuff."

Marcie ignored her and kept glancing nervously at the hanging flask.

"Oh, ya see da bottle up dere, huh?" Daisy asked again. "Ya got a right ta be worryin' 'bout dat, girly. I've been itchin' ta try a trap like dis one here."

Satisfied that the trap was set up correctly, Daisy walked back inside, leaned against a counter, and gestured to the laboratory glassware around her, while she gloated at Marcie.

"I takes it from all dese contrapshuns and so forth, dat ya like to mess 'round wit chemicals. Well, shoot, so do I! Guess I takes after Daddy Mayhem, thuh bes' durn 'shiner in all o' Whooten Holler. Anywho, whutcha got dere is whutcha call fulminate o' Mercury."

Marcie shivered in fear when she heard the chemical's name. Daisy saw that shiver, and gave one of her own, in murderous delight.

"Oh, ya herd o' dat b'fore! Well, dat's good. Don't wantcha goin' ta Saint Peter wit'out ya knowin' whut done ya in," Daisy told her with an easy smile. "But, yor one o' dose brainy types, so I suppose dere's no reason ta tell yew, of all people, whut's gonna happen, if, say, one o' your kinfolk, was to walk in here and break dat line runin' 'cross yor door."

She stood and walked back towards the door.

"It's a durn shame dat ya won't be 'round when we gets our own TV show," she said slyly. "But, who knows? Meybe dey gots TV in Heaven. I hear dey gots great recepshun up dere!"

Cackling at her own dark joke, Daisy Mayhem took her leave of the booby-trapped lab.

The moment the door closed, Marcie went to work.

The thought of her father looking for her and opening the door to the lab, gave her the impetus of a lioness, as she angled her body on the floor and awkwardly rolled towards the cabinet that held her sink.

When she reached the cabinet's base, she rolled to her side, resting on her upper arm and elbow. She then slowly extended her legs, shaping her body into a V, and then, with precious little leverage and with great difficulty, rocked back and forth from her elbow to her buttocks, harder and harder, until she had built up enough momentum to rock upright into a sitting position.

Marcie leaned against the cabinet and wearily sighed. The first stage of getting out of this death trap was almost compete. If she could get free before anyone came to the door, everything was copasetic.

A sound from one of the open lab windows made Marcie's heart freeze. Footsteps in the grass.

_Approaching_ footsteps...

_Winslow's?_

"Mmm! MMMmmm!" Marcie moaned in warning.

"Marcie? Is that you, in there?" came Jason's voice from outside.

Why was he here? She couldn't understand how he knew where she lived, and fretted that his first visit to her house would be his last.

"MMmm! MMmm! MMMmm!"

Even though she knew that he couldn't possibly make heads or tails of her frantic moaning, she, in good conscience, had to try.

Marcie could hear Jason walking closer to the door. Nothing was stopping him. But maybe she could.

The lab's door swung open from the inside, but Daisy rigged the tripwire to run low across the doorway from the outside. If she could somehow stand up, she could hop over to the door, and buttress up against it, keeping him from pushing it open.

Slapping her feet flat on the floor, she bent her knees, pushed into the traction of her shoes' soles, and leaned her back against the cabinet's door, inching her way up by clumsy increments, and hoping closer to the cabinet.

Then it happened. She finally stood tall against the sink, still bound, but now able to move more freely. The doorknob started to twitch and turn.

Marcie gave another moan, more frantic than before, praying that something would take Jason's attention away from entering, but that seemed so unlikely now. Her death and his was imminent.

All she could do was frown under her gag and think about the things she would never get to do now. Go to college, invent Super Helium and be rich, tell her father good-bye, find and tell her mother, hello again.

Tell Velma that she loved her...

The door swung open and Jason's foot stepped in, snapping the tripwire and releasing the tension of the thread. Marcie looked up to see the flask drop, and then she closed her eyes, not wanting to see the terrible impact and flash.

In the darkness of her closed eyes, Marcie's brain counted away the seconds that soon became too long for a heavy flask to fall.

She timidly opened her eyes again, to see the flask hanging down to the level of her face, swaying and twisting slowly from the sudden cessation of its descent.

Despite the close call, Marcie's heart was hammering. If the thread had broken when it stopped...

Looking over to the door, she saw Jason standing in the threshold with a perplexed look in his bespectacled eyes. Below, one of his feet standing on the broken thread, holding the flask up, for now.

"MMmmmm!" she moaned.

Jason, misinterpreting, leaned into stepping through the threshold. "Why are you taped up like that, Marcie? You want me to come in?"

"MMMMMmmMMMM!" Marcie screamed into her gag.

Jason stopped his action and leaned back into his previous standing position, his foot never leaving the thread.

"What?" he asked, dismayed.

Marcie nodded to the flask that hung like the Sword of Damocles. Then she broadly nodded to below him.

Confused, Jason looked at the flask, and then down to his foot on the thread. He didn't know what was going on, but the connection between the two concerned him.

"Is it bad?"

Marcie vigorously nodded.

"The _flask_ is bad?"

Another nod.

"And you don't want it to fall?"

She nodded again, grateful that the severity of the moment had finally dawned on him.

"Wh-What do I do? I can't walk in and untie you. If I lift my foot, that flask falls." Then an idea hit him. "Wait! Can you hop over here?"

Marcie twisted into position, jumping as far away, per hop, as she could from the deadly bottle.

When she stopped in front of Jason, he wasted no time. He reached over and tore the tape of her mouth in a single, painful move.

"Yeow!" Marcie yelled. "You did that on purpose!"

"No, I didn't," Jason defended. "But just be glad _I_ showed up, and not someone like your dad."

Any complaints she might have had brewing, died quickly, instead of, she realized, _her_. The entire bloodline of the Crystal Cove Fleaches could have been snuffed out that night. She felt death starting to fade from behind her shoulder, just then.

Marcie bowed her head in honest gratitude. "You're right, Jason. Thank you."

Jason began to beam. "Wow! Thanks from "Bossy Marcie," _twice_ in one night? I almost feel like playing the lottery," he joked. "Just kidding. You're welcome. Oh, and about what happened at my house? Truce, okay?"

Marcie, in spite of the death trap she still stood in, smiled. "Truce. Now, let me deal with that flask, so we can solve this mystery."

"Okay, let's get you outta this."

Marcie turned around, allowing Jason to find the end of the tape wrapped around her wrists, and unravel it.

Hands finally freed, she hoped away from the doorway, sat down, and went to work, unrolling the binds from her knees, and then finally, her ankles.

"What are you going to do with that flask?" he asked.

Marcie walked over to the hanging bottle and gently held the bottom of it. "I'm gonna do to this flask, what everyone does to me after a date. Let it down, easy. Okay, you can step off it, now."

Keeping his eyes on Marcie securely holding the flask, Jason took weight off of his foot and slowly lifted it off the thread, as though he was removing it from a defeated land mine.

Marcie eased the bottle on the counter by the sink, but wasn't planning on pouring the contents down the drain, which would have been dangerous, since she could see that there was a _large_ concentration of pale brown powder filling the bottom of the glass. Whoever that hillbilly woman was, she was a busy, if not psychotic, little bee.

Instead, she changed her mind, and took the flask off the counter, gently placing it into an old safe that sat in a far corner of the room, that she used to store hazardous chemicals in. With a thankful sigh, she spun the tumbler dial.

"Is it...over?" Jason asked quietly.

"It's over," she confirmed. "Why did you come over tonight, Jason. I thought you didn't know where I lived."

GPS tracker app on my cell phone," he said. "And I came because I saw something on that Drone's hard drive that you're not gonna believe. I brought it with me, so we can check it out."

"Does it have anything to do with Dick Dastardly?" Marcie asked. "I'm fairly certain that all of this points to him, somehow."

"Yeah! How did you know?"

"Well, they _are_ his Drones, after all," said Marcie. "We're getting close, Jason. Tonight proves it."

"Close to getting killed, is more like it," Jason fretted under his breath from the threshold. "Anyway, what was in that flask?"

"Hg(CNO)2. Mercury fulminate," Marcie said, simply, staring at the flimsy thread that held their lives just then. "If that had hit the floor, it would have put us in orbit."

Hearing a thud, she turned to see Jason, fainted dead away, in the threshold.

* * *

"Go home, Marlene," Sheriff Stone sighed upon seeing her in his office the following day.

"It's Marcie," Marcie corrected. "and I need to see the video tape footage from the hotel where the Wacky Racers are staying."

Stone tapped a thick finger on the top of his desk, his patience waning quickly.

"I have to prepare a security detail to guard those fender-freaks at the Convention Center, today," Stone grumbled. "You are wasting your time on this, Melody, and the only thing worse than that, is wasting mine."

"Please, Sheriff! This mystery is almost solved, I know it. I just need to see the tape to confirm my suspicions. What's it going to hurt? If I'm wrong, you can laugh in my face, as you kick me out of the station. If I'm right about this, you'll look like a hero." Marcie noticed that she didn't say that he would actually _be_ a hero, but then, neither did he. "It's a win-win scenario."

Kicking her out of his station was already appealing to him in ways he only began to fathom, and laughing in her face while that happened, for all of her vexations to him, was just too lovely. Humoring her was such a pittance to pay...

"Alright!" Stone groused. "Just to get you out of my hair, and put this nonsense to bed, once and for all, I'll let you see the video tape, just so you can see what I already saw. A guilty man."

Turning in his chair, he looked to Bucky, who was filing folders in a file cabinet, nearby.

"Bucky, get the hotel parking lot footage from Evidence and put it in the Scanalyzer," Stone ordered him.

"Yes, sir, Sheriff!" said the deputy with his usual perk. He left them, and then returned with a labeled videotape box. The three of them, then left for the analyzer room.

Inside, Bucky pulled the tape free from the box and inserted it into the slot of a large, squarish device that resembled an industrial sized VCR, that sat underneath a color television.

He then took a seat behind a desk that had a specialized keyboard with a miniature joystick built into the side, next to an unused headset. Cables ran from the back of the keyboard to the back of the video analyzer device.

"If whatever you think is on this tape, the police Scanalyzer should find it," the sheriff scoffed. "But, I doubt it."

Bucky hit the power button, and the TV screen glowed into resolution, showing them a black and white image of a parking lot, shot from overhead, looking down on the two rows of Racers' cars, and illuminated with the spotty lighting of widely spaced, flickering, outdoor lamps.

"There! There's our perp," Bucky announced upon seeing a shadowy, strangely large-headed figure slowly entering the lot.

"Is it me," Marcie said, perplexed. "or does your perp have a Mohawk?" She was shushed by the sheriff for her trouble.

The towering Creepy Coupe and the first row of parked cars cast heavy-to-slight shadows across the row of cars behind them, and the figure was strategically keeping himself as much in the shadows among the rear cars as he could.

Because the camera was situated behind the person, and at a high vantage point, no one in the room could make out a face. It made Marcie wonder how Stone could have thought such iffy evidence could be enough for an arrest. Then, she realized who made the arrest.

The figure, then made a move across the large, rear parked Convert-a-Car, a shadow jumped by it, and then the figure skipped into the darkness behind the forward parked colossus of the Army Surplus Special, stopped for another moment in its shade, then headed in a stroll towards the Mean Machine, his face still obscured, but his head, now normal sized.

Although the face was purposely angled away from sight, the camera could easily make out in the murky light, a man wearing a scarf, gloves, uniform jacket, jodhpurs and boots.

"See that?" Marcie asked, satisfied. "The man is wearing jodhpurs. Riding pants. The Red Max doesn't wear them.

Overhearing from the holding cell room, Max's voice unexpectedly called out, "Actually, Marcie, I vear them all der time."

Marcie followed Stone as he entered to the cell room. Max stood next to the bars, and lifted the lower end of his flight jacket, revealing the loose upper ends his blood-red jodhpurs.

Stone glanced at a chagrined Fleach, then returned to the video analysis room. "You're skating on thin ice, Missy."

"Wait, Sheriff!" Marcie pleaded. "I'm telling you we're missing something."

She looked at the freeze-framed image of the man and his outfit on the screen. It felt like it taunted her. Telling her that the answer was actually there, but she wouldn't be able to convince the skeptics in time.

One last play.

She stepped over to Bucky, and asked, "May I?"

Bucky glance over to Stone. "Sheriff?"

Stone decided to give Miss Fleach all the rope she'd ever need to hang herself. He shrugged and nodded his approval.

"Let her have a go at it. It's not like it changes anything," he said.

Bucky stood up and let her take his place at the keyboard, but she didn't rest her fingers on any of the keys, instead, she picked up the headset, plugged its cord into the back of the keyboard, and slipped the rig over her head.

"Could you turn the lights off, please?" she asked to Bucky, who complied.

In the dim room, Marcie concentrated on the screen.

"Rewind twelve seconds. Stop." she said into the headset's mic. The tape counter rapidly ticked backwards, and the tape rewound until it stopped on the figure moving behind the shadow of the Creepy Coupe.

"Play. Move in and enhance."

A white, square outline surrounded the image of the man, and then expanded him on screen. He was silhouetted against the darker cloak of the belfry's shade. His freakishly large head and face were severely indistinct, but the top of it looked like he was sporting the outline of a proud Mohawk.

She waited until the figure prepared to move across the Convert-a-Car. When he did, she told the Scanalyzer, "Pause and track seventy-five percent."

The figure froze mid-run just before he reached the high-tech vehicle, then he began to proceed with his jog in the dimness at extreme slow-motion.

Bronson scratched his head in both amazement and perplexity at Marcie's seeming mastery of the device.

"How do you know how to do that?" he asked, before Marcie shushed him for his trouble.

She kept her eyes glued, not on the man running a frame at a time, but on the white and chrome front half of the Convert-a-Car, shining brilliantly in the sparse lighting of the lot.

"There!" Marcie yelled, then ordered the device, "Pause and enhance!"

The man was frozen again, this time, caught in front of the Convert-a-Car by a sliver of lamplight peeking past the Compact Pussycat's umbrella, from up ahead. A sharp shadow stretched across Professor Pending's racer, creating a tall, yet crisp silhouette of the man's odd head against its bright surface.

"Grid." A white-lined, 12x8 square grid superimposed itself over the screen.

"Enhance eleven by four." The image on screen moved to the eleven by fourth square space and brought up the shadow to its maximum sharpness. Whoever the figure was, based on the shadow, it looked like he was wearing a bell on his head.

"Okay, gimme a hard copy," Marcie ordered the machine. From a thin slot on the face of the Scanalyzer, a high definition photograph of the shadow slid out for all to see.

Bucky turned the lights back on, as Marcie stood up and took the photo from the machine, holding it up to Stone.

"Look at the photo, Sheriff," she said. "Look at the shape of the shadow's head. That's not human. He's wearing some kind of helmet."

Stone shrugged at it. "So what? So does the Max guy."

"Max wears a flight helmet," Marcie pointed out. "This one is way too big to be that, and it's the wrong shape."

She put the picture down on a desk and, finding a piece of paper and a pen, drew the helmet-like shape on it. Then, she went back to Max's cell.

"Max, have you ever seen this helmet before?" she asked, passing the drawing through the bars to him.

Max peered at it, trying to remember. Then, he brightened with found memory.

"Ja! I haff seen this before."

Stone, joining Marcie in the cell room, skeptically asked, "Yeah? Where?"

"It is a German Dragoon Officer's Helmet," the combat ace explained. "but I haff definitely seen some dunderhead wearing this before. He is not German, and I don't think he is an officer, but I hear that he is a genius vhen it comes to his schemes backfiring."

Marcie hazarded a wild guess. "Does this "genius" hang around a surprising strong, barefoot, Appalachian woman who has a pet pig?

"Ja. I haff seen them together, sometimes."

Marcie nodded in understanding and gave a grim smile, then turned to Bronson. "Sheriff, I think this case is going to be wrapped up very shortly, but I need you to do something for me."

"Like what, Mindy?" Stone asked suspiciously.

Marcie raised a finger to begin her count her of favors. "First, learn my name. It's Marcie, and second, I need your phone number."


	7. 7

_7~_

The Crystal Cove Convention Center was nearly filled to capacity, graciously accepting gearheads, both local and out-of-town, for this year's well-timed auto show.

Killing time, Marcie and Jason wandered through the crowds that gathered around the open floor space of the center, wanting to see the latest car designs that dominated the area, showcased by the latest models available.

Amongst the concept cars shone was a full scale model, suspended by wire, of a rounded, experimental air vehicle, that featured a roomy interior and cockpit, protected by a wide bubble-domed canopy.

Marcie casually read the pamphlet given to her by a forgettable sales rep named _Jessie? Jessup? Jetsen?_ from the recently founded automotive company Parsec Motors, that claimed that sometime in the future, this transport model, the similarly named_ Jetstar_, would give the average citizen true, safe, personal flight within the city limits.

"It'll never get off the ground," she scoffed, putting the pamphlet on a nearby exhibit table, stealing one more quick glance at a comely model, and then signaling for Jason to follow her.

He grabbed his round package and trailed behind her, as she went to Ballroom Number Three where the Wacky Racers and their producer were having their panel.

The two teens slipped unobtrusively into the large room, that was surprising ornate for this venue, and stayed in the back by the double doors, overlooking the 260 fan-filled seats separated into individual, napkin-appointed tables.

Up front, production camera crews shot the Racers, minus Dick, the show's producer, and Dr. Maynard Spring sitting behind a long table on a stage, supplied with microphones, drinking glasses, water pitchers, and folded napkins to wipe with afterwards, laughing at, and with fans, and fielding questions.

"...Because each of them was saved from death at the time of their displacement," Doctor Spring said, answering a fan's question. "The Ant Hill Mob during a shoot out with police, the Red Max during a dogfight in WW I, and the Slag Brothers in the middle of a hunt gone bad. When Sundial accidentally rescued them, they were given a chance to test how displaced people can survive and cope in modern society via the race. They gratefully accepted."

A fan raised his hand to be called upon.

"Yes," said the producer.

"This is for all the Racers," he began. "What would you say was your favorite race?"

Answers from individual drivers ranged from courses in the Deep South, cross-country runs through the Midwest, to a fast and picturesque race along Route 66.

Another fan asked, "How do you all feel about Dick Dastardly's death?"

Peter leaned forward to his microphone.

"I think I speak for every Racer here, when I say that we do miss him. Was he a scoundrel? Yes. Was he a cheat? Absolutely. Was he a sneaky, reprehensible cad with no moral center, who would just as soon throw your mother into oncoming traffic, as look at you? Of course. Was he little more than a snake in human guise? A reptilian rapscallion in a racing car? Was he a-"

Penelope, sitting next to him, reached over and covered his mic, while answering into her own, for the fan, "We miss him very much, Sugah."

When the laughter died down some, another fan raised his hand and asked, "With the arrest of the Red Max and the death of Dastardly, will this be the last season of the show?"

The producer moved up to his mic, saying. "It's too early to tell at this point what will be definitive. Wacky Races has always been a winner-take-all, almost anything-goes affair. With all of these new developments coming in hard and fast, it's makes one wonder if we, as a show, have bitten off more than we could chew."

A giggling, blushing girl stood up with a question directed at Penelope.

"Miss Pitstop, I was wondering, do you consider you and Peter a couple?"

Amidst the knowing oohs and chuckles that such a question merited, Penelope leaned into her mic and said, "Well, Peter and I have always had a very nice relationship. But, I guess, as far as competition goes, he'll always have a nice view of my rear bumper." She gave a Peter a flirtatious look. "Isn't that right, dear heart?"

Peter chuckled good-naturedly at the risqu response. "Indeed, Pretty Penny. By the way, if your Pussycat is ever in the need for a tune-up, my toolbox is always at your disposal."

That was rewarded with a genuinely hot blush from the distaff Racer.

She leaned over to whisper, slyly, in his ear, "Hmm, now, who's the cad?"

"Just looking for an opening, my dear. All's fair in love and racing," he whispered back, then favored her a look of mock-concern. "You're not offended, are you?"

Penelope gave a playfully mock appearance of thinking the incident over, then said, "I'll let you know."

Before the amorous banter could continue, however, a roaring wind from an unseen source suddenly blew over and across the stage, alerting the Racers and others by the table.

Dick's apparition flew out from backstage and stopped, hovering over the guests and laughing cruelly.

_"You should have asked them the most important question,"_ Dick howled at the terrified crowds of fans, getting up from their seats in a panic. _"How long does any of the Wacky Racers have to live?"_

The Racers instinctively ducked as Dick jetted out over the ballroom and circled the grand chandelier, like a moth to a lamp.

Marcie and Jason jumped to either side of the double doors to avoid the stampede of fans running towards them. As soon as one parted the doors, frightened humanity poured out in a clumsy, screaming, chaotic rush.

_"Wacky Racers, you will race against me, for eternity!"_ Dick screeched from above.

The producer hid his head and cowered into the table cloth.

"It's his ghost again! He's gonna shut down this production for sure!" he blubbered, even worse than Blubber Bear, who hid under the table. "I can't go back to doing cat food commercials!"

"Don't run! Don't be afraid, people! That ghost is a fake!" Marcie called out firmly while she walked towards the stage, holding her hand up to assuage the guests and camera crew.

"Fake?" The Wacky Racers and their producer said in stunned unison.

Marcie reached the foot of the stage, then turned to Jason, who waddled past the tables, carrying the cloaked object.

"It's time to put the air brakes on this ghost, once and for all," she said. "Jason, if you please?"

Jason sat at one of the tables closest to the stage, put the object on the table, and unveiled it. It was Jason's Drone.

Rufus peered at the weapon, in surprise. "Eet eez won uv Deek's Turbo Terror Drones," he said to the boy. "Why doo you 'ave zese zing? Eez zat wat keeled heem?"

Jason spoke up. "No. This is what's been scaring the heck outta Marcie and me," he said, then added, "_Especially me_. This Drone isn't like the ones Dick had in Nevada. This one's remote controlled, and modified with a built-in projector to create the image of a ghostly Dick Dastardly around it, so when the Drone flew, all we saw was Dick's ghost flying around."

"I don't understand," Penelope admitted. "Why are his Drones even here? Wouldn't they have been destroyed with the Mean Machine?"

"Not if the Mean Machine was a fake," said Marcie.

Whadya mean? asked Clyde. How do ya know it s fake?

"Jason and I found pieces of an FM radio receiver, some servos, and a small camera across the street from where the Mean Machine was destroyed. After analyzing and putting the pieces together, we discovered that they were part of a RC rig that came from the Double Zero," she explained to them.

"Someone was driving a _copy_ of the car by remote control, that day," said Jason. "Someone who wanted to make sure that the fake Mean Machine was blown up in front of a lot of witnesses."

"Who?" Professor Pending asked.

"The same someone who's controlling the ghost that's above us, now," Marcie said, pointing up at the ghost hovering by the chandelier.

"Dick?" Lazy Luke guessed.

"He's...still alive, somewhere?" Private Meekly gasped.

"What are you saying, kid? He faked his death?" the producer asked incredulously. "A bit clich d, don't you think? If he just wanted to throw a monkey wrench into the show, why didn't he just blow up one of the Racers?" Seeing how tactless that sounded, despite being a reasonable question, he quickly said to them, "No offense. I mean, he tries to, all the time, doesn't he?"

Marcie shrugged. "Well, I admit that, for a little while, we _did_ think that Dick was responsible, when we discovered that the ghosts were just projections from his Drones. But, I believe, we have the answers, now. Dick Dastardly is, indeed, still alive, and no, people, he did not fake his own death. He was kidnapped."

"By who?" Private Meekly asked.

"By the same guy who's about to be caught red-handed by his own equipment," Jason chimed in. "I did a little modification to this Drone, myself. I put in a homemade signal tracker. All I have to do is turn it on, and it'll sniff out the radio signal that controlling the other ghost Drone."

Jason opened the back hatch of the weapon and pressed a repurposed button. The Drone's top propeller whirred into life and lifted the machine's bulk into the air.

It flew around the room in a tight circular search pattern, slowed when it detected a strong radio pulse, and then zoomed off, behind the stage.

Hidden in a supply closet, deep backstage, a man dressed in a dark sweater, ski mask, and slacks, was watching the proceedings going on below the chandelier, from a small close-circuit monitor built into a large, double-joysticked transmitter, with growing concern.

From outside the closed door, he heard the approaching whine of a hard working, motor-driven prop. As soon as his body tensed in alertness to the sound, it began to recede. The Drone was starting to fly away.

The man began to relax, somewhat. However, before he could breath easy again, the door suddenly collapsed pathetically from the hinges, and the massive hand of Big Gruesome reached down and plucked the startled man out of the closet, like a favorite toy.

Big dragged the struggling man and tossed him, easily, onto the center of the table, as the Racers and the producer stood and moved away from their seats to see this figure from a safe distance, the bulky transmitter unit falling from his hand, unto the stage.

"Wha-What's going on? What did I do?" the man yelled, attempting to get up and leave. Big reached over and pressed the man still against the table top with one wide hand, nearly squeezing the breath from him.

Jason left his table, went to the stage, and picked up the transmitter, bringing ghostly "Dick" down to the floor, before turning the Drone and its projector off.

Marcie climbed on stage and walked over to the table. "I don't know? You tell _us_." She reached over and yanked the ski mask from his head.

Wacky Racers, producer, and camera crew alike, gasped in confusion. Except for a slight difference in the nose, it was him, in the uncanny, villainous flesh.

"Dick Dastardly?" they said in incredulous unison.

In spite of seeing the old villain, Peter couldn't help grinning in relief. "Dick! We thought that you snuffed it, old bean!"

"I didn't snuff anything, Peter Imperfect," the man snarled with a wheeze.

"Wait!" Little, the vampire, said to Marcie. "I thought you said that he was kidnapped, that he didn't fake his own death."

"That's not Dick Dastardly," Marcie and Jason said, together.

"What?" the producer said, then turned back to the man. "Then, who the heck are you?"

"Yes! That _is_ the question, isn't it?" the man hissed, amusedly, at him. "Who am I?" Soon the whole world will know that answer, when my colleagues and I tear you Wacky Racers down, and we rise as the next greatest celebrities on television!"

He angled his head towards Marcie, who was the closest to him. "I'm surprised that you survived our little trap for you, four-eyes, and you're right, the both of you. I'm not your precious Dick Dastardly, I am far greater! I'm his twin brother, the Dread Baron!"

"The Dread Baron?" the Racers, Marcie and Jason said, surprised.

The producer shrugged. "Never heard of him."

"If you think my brother was bad, I'm ten times worse," said Dread. "That's why my brother never mentioned me. I'm so mysterious, I'm obscure! That's why none of you ever _heard_ of me."

Marcie crossed her arms, sternly. "Well, we're hearing you, now. Why did you frame the Red Max?"

Dread sneered at her indignation. "Ha! You'll have to do better than that to convince me of saying anything."

"Perhaps," Marcie reasoned. "I may not know _why_ you framed him, but I do know _how_. You and Max dress in similar military outfits, but with different colors. Somehow, you must have known that the parking lot cameras shot everything in black and white. Wearing your outfit and staying in the shadows, you were counting on the footage capturing enough of your outfit's details, so that no one could tell you from him."

"And it almost worked," she continued. "except for that big helmet you wear. You didn't take it off in time, and it cast a shadow. Because of that shadow, we were able to identify you as the one who was standing next to the Mean Machine in the hotel parking lot, the night before the parade, so when the ghost appeared and incriminated Max with the security footage, the police would have, what they thought was evidence, to the fact."

"_Drat_. I knew I should have left my Dragoon back at the motel," Dread muttered. "But it's all circumstantial evidence, at best. At least, that's what the lawyers'll say." He countered with a grin, finishing his rebuttal with a blown raspberry in her direction.

Marcie thought for a moment. Dread was actually right. The footage was damning in one way, and circumstantial, in another, but there was a risky trick to get around that.

She left the stage, walked over to Jason, and whispered in his ear. Understanding, Jason slid into a smile and nodded. Then, they both calmly walked back to the ballroom's entrance and open the doors.

Suspicious and not understanding what was transpiring, Dread, followed their movements, feeling his namesake with each foot they closed with the entrance.

Under Big's mighty hand, he asked, aloud, "Where are you two going?"

Marcie called out from the threshold. "You're right, Dread. We can't convince you to say anything."

Jason chimed in. "But, I bet _they_ can!"

The Wacky Racers now understanding the role they were to play in this, gathered menacingly around the table where Dread was still pinned. He looked very nervous.

"We're going to leave, now, and let these fine people ask you why you kidnapped and impersonated Dick, and then, had their friend framed for his apparent death," Marcie said simply.

"Yeah, they look a _lot_ more persuasive that we are," said Jason. "Catch ya later."

The Racers gathered tightly around Dread, and Big Gruesome finally lifted his slab of a hand off of Dread's tortured chest, only to have Little Gruesome hop up on the table, walk over to Dread, and then, stand on his aching torso, giving the trapped human a lethal, hungry grin.

"You Racers sssoften him up," hissed Little, his golden eyes glinting in anticipation. "Then, I'll feeeed!"

The double doors begin to close behind the two teens, as the vengeful crowd prepared to go to town on him.

Then Dread's nerve broke, and he screamed.

"Wait! Wait! It was the doctor!" The mighty Dread howled in fear. "The doctor, blast you! He set it up!"

The doors opened, and the duo entered again. Jason not believing his ears.

"Doctor...Spring?" he asked, almost to himself.

"Yes! Yes!" Dread said, hearing him. "It was all his idea! He approached us with a plan to bring us into the limelight! Take over the Wacky Races! It was brilliant!

"And he didn't ask for any compensation?" Marcie asked, arriving back at the foot of the stage.

"Not at all," said Dread. "Normally, I'd be wary of such foolish altruism, but Mother always said, "Never look a gifted sucker in the mouth.""

"Words to live by," Marcie said dryly. She then turned to see Doctor Spring still sitting in his spot at the table. He hadn't stirred throughout the entire faux-haunting and subsequent capture of Dread.

"You're pretty quiet for someone who's hearing all this," She said to him. "Aren't you going to tell us that Dread is lying through his teeth?"

"Dread is a fool. A fact that everyone here will attest is incontrovertible. Would anything he said matter to me, Miss Fleach?" the doctor asked, simply.

"I suppose not," Marcie answered in kind, before directing her deductions to everyone present. "The Red Max told me that, before he left for Crystal Cove, he was installing what he thought was radio equipment in his car. He also said that, at the parade, someone tried to call him on his car's radio, and when he tried to reply, that was when the Mean Machine exploded."

"And that incriminates me, how, Miss Fleach?" he asked, unperturbed.

"I took the liberty of examining the so-called transmitter Max installed in his car, for myself," Marcie explained. "The color on the top of the device looked slightly different than the rest, and there was a dried substance that came out of the seam that ran along the top. When I analyzed this substance, it turned out to be super glue."

"Super glue?" asked Sergeant Blast. "Are you sure, civilian?"

"Completely," she continued. "The top and bottom of the transmitter were not machined together, because they didn't go together. Someone cut the tops off the real transmitter and detonator, and then glued the transmitter's top on the detonator's bottom, disguising it."

"It still doesn't prove that I had anything to do with what your saying," the doctor said. "I am entertained by this farce, however."

"Then, you're gonna love this," Marcie quipped. "I'm going to prove that you _did_ have everything to do with this, and all with just one word."

"And that word is?"

"Access," she said. "If Dread is telling the truth, and you came to him, you wouldn't be able to offer him help, unless you had the wherewithal to do so, ahead of time. Because you're an employee of Sundial, you secretly used your access to their resources to help build a mock Mean Machine for Dread to pilot."

"Also," she continued. "because the Red Max, the Slag Brothers, and the Ant Hill Mob are all sponsored by Sundial, their cars get special parts from them, and, again, since you work for Sundial, it wouldn't be hard for you to intercept Max's radio parts and tamper with them."

"Plus, when Dread was controlling the Mean Machine that day, he must've been in the crowd, in disguise," Jason reasoned. "If he was, then he could have also made that call to Max, so Max would reply and arm the bomb. And since Dread couldn't possibly do that, unless he knew the Haybaler's frequency, you had to have had access to give him that, too."

"With all of that sabotage," said Marcie. "I suppose it wouldn't have been long before you had all the headlines and publicity you wanted, huh?"

"Hey, when it comes to getting your own TV show, there's no such thing as bad press," Dread opined.

"Is that also when the Drones first came upon the scene?" she added.

"Not really," Dread admitted. "The first time Dick's ghost was seen was at the parade, and we actually used honest-to-goodness magic, then."

"What?" asked Marcie, unbelieving what she heard. "_Please_."

"On my dishonor as a villain, 'tis true. We have a magician in our ranks who can conjure the most powerful of illusions. He cast such a spell to create our ghost, used to incriminate Red Max, and convince you small-town sheep of Dastardly's destruction."

Marcie put the notion of actual magic, however far-fetched it sounded, aside, and said, "I take it after Doctor Spring found out that Jason and I found those RC parts, he had two of Dick's Turbo Terror Drones modified to disguise themselves as Dastardly's ghost to scare us into giving the parts back and staying out of your way."

"Precisely."

"And your magician couldn't conjure up the ghost at the parade again, because..." Marcie skeptically asked.

"He's could only remember half of the spell, that day. We may have a magician, but I never said he was a good one." Dread said ruefully. "For that, I used my faithful dog, Mumbly, to carry that task out. He was there at SmartyMart, and he was there, the next day, tailing you by bicycle, my dear, during your driving exam, although he admittedly lost you, afterwards."

"I suppose, it wasn't hard to figure out that Doctor Spring had gotten our itineraries from Jason." said Marcie, glancing accusingly at Jason.

"How...How do you know?" Jason sputtered, nervously.

"How could I not?" she said. "You said that you corresponded with Dr. Spring often, and you were the only person who knew where I'd be that day."

Jason, realizing his blunder, bowed his head, thoroughly embarrassed. "I'm sorry, Marcie. I didn't know he was a bad guy, then."

"Humph," an annoyed Marcie muttered. "You're just lucky my instructor said that I passed, Jellyfish."

Dread ignored the scene. "Anyway, when scaring didn't work, we decided to use the Drones as red herrings to steer you in the wrong direction. When Mumbly was at SmartyMart, that night, he make sure that Butterball, there, found the Drone."

"Hey!" the boy bristled.

"But, what Jumbo didn't know was that the Drone had a hidden microphone and homing device built in, so, we were able to keep tabs on him. When it looked like he wasn't coming to the conclusion that we wanted, fast enough, we sent Mumbly to his house, so he could activate the Drone in his workshop, replaying the exact same thing he said to him at SmartyMart."

"Yeah," said Jason. "Because of that, I was able to figure out that the ghost was a fake, and since it came from the Drone, we were beginning to think that Dick was alive, somewhere, and siccing his Drones on Marcie and me to cover up his apparently fake death."

"Thus, drawing attention away from us," Dread said, self-satisfied.

"That's true," Marcie concurred. "But, if that was the case, then why attack me that night? I thought that the ghost I saw by the van was fake. Isn't that's what you wanted?"

"Blame it on dear Daisy Mayhem's enthusiasm," Doctor Spring admitted, at last, with a sigh.

He then shifted attention to Dread for a moment, sneering in frustration. "I should have known that you and you crew would bungle everything, given time." He then turned back to Marcie.

"I have to say that I'm quite impressed with your excellent detective work. You managed to successfully force a confession out of that dimwit, over there, and deduce my role in our deception of everyone involved, despite getting side-tracked by our ruse with the Drones. Congratulations, Miss Fleach and Mr. Wyatt. Everything you figured out was true, and we are guilty as charged."

Marcie gave a slight bow to the doctor. "Thank you, Doctor. However, I'm assuming that the only reason you're saying all of this is because you have a way out."

Doctor Spring smiled graciously. "Still the detective, Miss Fleach. Yes, I have a _quite_ a way out, if you will. Besides, even with all of these witnesses hearing what we've just said, in court, it would just be your word against mine. However, before I _undo_ all of this mess, please allow me to finish the tale."

"Mumbly sent the second ghost Drone after you at the impound lot. We knew you were there, because we rigged a silent alarm in the Haybaler if anyone opened its hood. We had thought that our problems were over, when the guard dogs caught you, but you outsmarted them and escaped, so, we trailed you to your home."

"Unfortunately, Daisy's pet pig, Sooey, ran loose and tried to dig up your backyard. I suppose that's what had you running out to find us. When Daisy saw you snooping by the van, she forgot that you was _supposed_ to see Dread, disguised as Dick's ghost, and believe that what you were seeing an illusion, to help cement the idea in your mind that Dick was involved."

"But, unfortunately, because you saw Daisy, we had shown our hand, and had to get rid of you, hence, the deathtrap in the lab, which, clever girl, you managed to escape from."

"I had some help," Marcie admitted smugly.

"How awesome for you," Dread muttered from the table, then turned his attention back to the doctor. "But now that I'm caught, you could, at least, tell me how you knew about what happened with Daisy, Doctor."

"I suggest that you periodically test the loyalty of your people, Dread Baron," said the doctor. "Especially, the four-legged kind."

Dread thought, and then it hit him like a fatal shot. "Mumbly?"

"He was an excellent spy," Spring admitted. "but I do believe his talents are wasted on you."

While Dread lay on the table, more devastated than ever, Doctor Spring glanced Marcie and Jason.

"However, one thing has me concerned," he said. "How did you ever figure out that Dastardly was kidnapped?"

"A hunch, actually," Marcie told him. "If someone seriously wanted to do Dick in, all someone would have to do is put Dick in the car, and then blow the car up. Although the police found DNA evidence from the crime scene, identifying Dick, they didn't find anything larger, like his body parts."

Jason tried to stifle his rising sick at the thought of that.

"That tells me that someone grabbed Dastardly," Marcie continued. "and then collected enough of his DNA from his old racing clothes, hair, skin, and perhaps, even blood, to place inside the Mean Machine, hidden behind newly installed tinted windows, to fool the police into thinking he was killed. But, if you want to know what clinched it for me, Doctor, then I suggest that you periodically test the loyalty of _your_ people. Especially, the four-legged kind." Marcie then said, "Jason?"

Jason went back to the table where his Drone sat. He depressed a button in its rear, and then the lenses, positioned all around its body, lit up.

An image flickered into view of a shaggy, unkempt-looking dog, standing upright in an orange trench coat, looking out at the audience. Through a series of hastily drawn pictures, he provided, followed by raucous-sounding barking and growling play-by-play, this canine told off his discovery of Dastardly's kidnapping.

He communicated that he didn't know where they had kept him, but he knew where their canine group member was, showing a picture of what looked like himself. So, after kidnapping him, the pictures showed, he asked, but got no answers concerning Dick's whereabouts, so he simply impersonated the dog.

Doctor Spring and Dread Baron stared in helpless shock at Mumbly taking off the trench coat, rubbing the fur colored make-up off of his short round ears, and then fluffing them up into their naturally longer, black ones.

That was how the kids knew to ignore the red herring, the thought resonated in the doctor, like a final chord of a dirge. Dastardly's dog was the unseen variable. A hidden soldier in a Trojan Horse of their own making.

_Muttley_ managed to enunciate the word, "Switcheroo," before snickering triumphantly.

"He was an excellent spy, but I do believe his talents are wasted on you," Marcie said, smugly.

Then she walked over to Spring's side of the table, lifted a folded napkin, to uncover her cell phone, and picked it up.

"It's a good thing that I talked to the event coordinator before you came here. She knew where you were going to sit," Marcie said to a genuinely numb Spring. Then she put the phone to her ear. "Did you get all of that, Sheriff?"

Stone's voice begrudgingly came out. "Yeah, I did. Okay, the Red guy's free to go. We're coming over with a cool pair of handcuffs for the Doc and this Dredge guy."

Jason waddled up to the foot of the stage, looking up at a man he once admired.

"Why, Doctor Spring?" he asked, sadly. "You were the leading man in the field of temporal physics. Why lower yourself to this?"

Spring glanced at him. "Why? Why do you think I came here? To check out some idiotic car race, or baby-sit some stupid anachronisms? No! I came here because my people found something _huge_ happening _in this town_. Something that rewrites the book on what we know about space/time, and it's gonna blow the roof off of the scientific community, when I sell it to my client!"

"Client?" Marcie asked, taken aback. "You mean, you're a datamonger?"

"A what?" asked Peter.

"A datamonger," she explained, with a touch of disgust on her tongue. "Someone who secretly looks for unexplained scientific phenomena, takes their readings, analyzes their data, and then sells it on the scientific black market to the highest bidder, from research firms to mad scientists. The fresher the data, the bigger the payoff."

"Quite so, my dear," Spring said, casually. "In fact, I have a big buyer set up for the information I stole from Sundial. Information and sensory data concerning a possible temporal anomaly developing right here in Crystal Cove. My big score, at last, and none of you are going to ruin it for me!"

Quickly, Spring tapped at his watch, and a sustained, torturously loud beep issued forth, forcing everyone to clap hands over ears to shield from the piercing sound.

He tore from the table, bounded from the stage, and ran, pell-mell towards the double doors.

Turning off the sound generator in his watch, he then grabbed both doorknobs and swung the doors open. What the recovering party on stage saw, surprised them most of all.

A group of people moved past Spring and walked into the ballroom with malicious intent in their eyes.

A sly looking stage magician, his red cape flowing, stately, took point, accompanied by a large, white, big nosed, upright walking rabbit, wearing a suit tailored to his size.

They were followed by what looked to be a small, pale strange-looking family consisting of a fanged, squat, short-statured patriarch with a mop of blond hair obscuring his eyes, along with his wife, a taller, more spindly specimen, clad in a black, form-fitting dress, and sporting an exuberant nose and long, black hair that grew well passed her shoulders, and their son, a smaller version of the father, who had, in tow, with spiked collar and leash, a large, spotted, purple octopus with a disturbingly human-like face, who shuffled past tables, upright, on six of his eight strong tentacles, the last two, twisting eagerly for a deadly embrace, serving as his arms.

Following the family was someone Marcie, frowning, was well acquainted with. Led by the immense, spotted, eye-patched boar, Sooey, his mistress, Daisy Mayhem cockily strutted herself forward.

Bringing up the rear, Spring watched the Dalton Brothers swagger through the parted doors. First, the diminutive brothers, dark-haired Dirty, and blond-haired and similarly named Dastardly Dalton, and closing the roster, the massively built and ironically named Dinky, who stopped in the just accommodating threshold.

The doctor gave a furious sneer at the Racers, Marcie and Jason, and then gave the visitors their only command via Dinky.

"No witnesses," Spring said, then he left the ballroom and future charnel house.

Dinky Dalton gave a dimwitted, murderous giggle in compliance, as his huge hands slowly closed, and gently locked, the doors. He turned his too-huge-for-his-Stetsoned head towards the stage, his eyes, hidden under the pulled-down brim, locking on to his victims.

Stomping past tables and jingling silverware with every step, he reached his comrades and cracked his knuckles, making a sound reminiscent of bricks being crushed under a steamroller.

"Who are you guys?" the producer spoke up.

Dread, catching Little off-guard and pushing him aside, slipped down off the stage before Big could catch him again, and stood in the center of his crew, announcing with dark pride, "We're the Really Rottens, and we're going to stomp a _mudhole_ in you."


	8. 8

_8~_

The camera crew peeled away from the apron of the stage in small groups, huddling in the corners of the room, and still shooting, but making sure they were nowhere near the action. They resolved that their telephoto and zoom lenses were going to get a workout this day.

Dinky didn't wait for permission. He saw a table near him, scooped it up in a massive hand, and flung it at the Racers and their table.

Big reached out an arm and intercepted the object with his fist, smashing it into sections that tumbled and slid across the stage. That was all the provocation he needed.

With a bestial roar, Big bounded off of the stage, followed closely by his partner, Little, who hissed in fury. Big collided with the incoming Dinky, but Big's momentum caused the villainous cowboy to backpedal and then keel over into another table, crushing it flat.

The rest of the Rottens scattered out of the way of the battling behemoths and swarmed around the foot of the stage, attempting to climb up it.

"We're going to be overrun!" Sergeant Blast bellowed, then ordered his comrades, "Split up into teams!"

The rest of the Racers split away from the long table, and broke off into two groups, heading in opposite directions to head off the flanking Rottens.

Dread and his group closed in on the first Racer group. He set his sights on attacking Penelope first. A beaten woman might dishearten and demoralize the other Racers, when they saw what a Rotten was capable of.

However, he must have telegraphed his intentions, because Peter leaped ahead of her, arms up in classic turn-of-the-century boxing style.

"You'll not touch her, you base cur!" Peter roared.

That distracted Dread, forcing him to concentrate on Peter, but before either man could come to blows, Daisy's voice called out, "Sorry, Dread, darlin', but she's _my_ dance pardner!"

Daisy appeared behind an equally distracted Penelope, lifting her in a crushing bearhug, and then, in a run, leaped off the stage, driving the woman to the floor below.

Daisy stood and brushed herself off. Penelope lay dazed and still, the air completely knocked out of her.

"Penny!" was Peter had time to say, before one of Orful Octopus's purple tentacles whiplashed around his neck, lifted him with ease, and threw him past the side curtains, left of the stage.

Laughing, Dread stalked in after him.

The magician, who called himself The Great Fondoo, casually closed with his target, the Racer who seemed to be a threat to him alone. With an almost dismissive flick of his wand, the table's bulk was flipped aside, revealing Pat Pending, preparing himself for battle, via desperate improvisation.

The professor reached over and grabbed one end of the table cloth and yanked it free from under the overturned table.

This cause Fondoo to hesitate, amusedly. What on Earth would the professor do with a table cloth when he was caught dead to rights?

The answer came in instant. Pat, with effort, flapped the long cloth into the magician's face.

Pat flapped again, but this time Fondoo was ready for it. He stepped back, raised his wand and pointed it at the bothersome cloth.

From the cloth's center, a flame was born, that grew into adolescence, adulthood, old age, and then, a consuming death, blasting the cloth in seconds.

Fondoo and Pat both tilted their heads away from the raw heat and floating bits of burning fabric, but when Fondoo recovered, it was in time to see Marcie, now on stage, throw an Insta-ice capsule, hard, at his wand hand.

The capsule cracked open against his wand, spilling out liquid that painfully froze and expanded across Fondoo's clenched, and now immobilized, hand.

Never having seen Marcie before, he stared angrily at her, wondering if she was, in fact, another magician, working on the Racers' behalf. He stared too long at her, however, and it soon became a moot point.

Pat stepped forward and let loose a surprisingly hard haymaker that had the magician spinning off the stage and into a table, down below.

The strange-looking family, known as The Creepleys, decided, as a unit, that a frontal assault on the stage was folly, and instead, fell back to the sitting area of the ballroom again.

Sergeant Blast, Private Meekly, Rufus, and Lazy Luke, holding his jug of moonshine, clambered down from the stage to engage The Creepleys...which was just what the family wanted.

Mr. Creepley kept his hair-covered eyes on the Racers' approach, and unbuttoned his suit jacket.

His wife, Mrs. Creepley, simply flexed her thin fingers, casually, but her targets couldn't see, from their distance, the slender threads of venom that dripped down from under her sharp, long nails.

As for their son, Junior, he cautiously stepped back from his parents, waiting for his opportunity.

"Frontal assault, Meekly!" Blast yelled, as he and the private rushed after the patriarch.

Mr. Creepley opened his jacket with simultaneous flicks of his hands, revealing a vest bejeweled with row upon row of throwing knife handles. With deft and practiced swiftness, he let loose two blades before his jacket closed over the vest again.

The two soldiers stopped their run in a skid, and dropped to the floor, their military training giving them the merest time to evade the glittering death that flew at them.

Blast turned over on his back when he heard the knives bury themselves in the stage's apron behind him and Meekly, and saw Mrs. Creepley standing over him, a toothsome, victorious grin on her face.

She raised her arm, hand clawing the air, and slashed at Blast, her nails hooking and shredding into the sleeves of his uniform tunic.

A table cloth was suddenly draped over the woman, and she began to claw at it, as she was grabbed by Meekly from behind and carried away from his commanding officer.

Mr. Creepley slid out two more knives, drew a bead on Meekly's back, and threw.

Before they could slice into the private, they were deflected to the floor by Rufus' thrown axe, before it bit into the floor, itself.

Hissing in anger, Mr. Creepley threw two more blades, but Rufus, knowing that saving Meekly made him vulnerable to reprisal, grabbed a chair and held it out, blocking the knives. Then he threw the chair at the little man.

Mr. Creepley dove to the side, throwing a blade as he fell. Rufus, running to his axe, saw the throw, tucked and rolled to his weapon, and, standing, deflected two more knives thrown his way, with the broad head of his axe.

So busy was the knife-wielding maniac in trying to kill Rufus, that he failed to notice Blast creeping unsteadily behind him, and clouting him hard on the back of his head with his helmet.

As Mr. Creepley fell over, his son, nervous that the battle was swinging in the Racers' favor, gave a loud whistle.

The sound of tables and chairs swatted aside like toys heralded the coming of the boy's pet octopus, smashing his way towards his family.

Rufus, and a now weaker-looking Blast, turned to the monster cephalopod, brandishing axe and helmet alike.

Orful lashed out a tentacle, slapping Meekly into the nearby tables, freeing Mrs. Creepley, who then climbed out from under the cloth, eager to envenom again.

Blast tried to keep one eye on the octopus, and one eye on Mrs. Creepley, before Junior decided to make his move.

The boy, seeing that his pet was having a hard time closing on Rufus and his lightning swift axe, pulled a blowgun from one of his pockets and targeted Rufus with it.

He blew. The poison dart flew towards the lumberjack, but it was the sergeant that took the hit, in his shoulder.

Blast fell to one knee, in an attempt to stay on his feet, the boy's venom compounding the damage Mrs. Creepley's own poison nails did earlier.

Junior slipped another dart into the blowgun, and was about to fire again on Rufus, when Blast lurched into a run towards the boy and smashed the bamboo tube from his little hands with his helmet.

Blast leaned against a table to catch his breath, while Junior fled to a far corner of the ballroom, hoping Orful and his mother could defeat these stubborn Racers.

Rufus swung at one of Orful's tentacles, keeping the beast back a respectable distance. When he heard the soft approach of Mrs. Creepley, he turned slightly, but that was more than enough for Orful.

A tentacle knocked his axe away enough off-angle to get more of his steel-grip limbs inside Rufus' defenses, wrapping and securing the French Canadian's wrists and ankles, and soon his torso, holding him steady for his mistress, as she approached and calmly extended one of her venomous hands.

She cupped the man's face in her cool palm, finger nails softly stroking on his cheek, threatening to clutch and cut into it.

No amount of French curses could have given Rufus the strength, or the leverage he needed to break from the octopus' grasp, as he struggled against the thin woman's touch.

Mrs. Creepley released his face and raised her hand, ready to rake poisonous furrows across its surface. Orful, chuckling deeply.

Then, Mrs. Creepley gasped and stiffened, then she fell over by the remaining supporting tentacles of her surprised pet.

In her bony back, the sea creature saw a dart, standing tall and deep, launched by a recovered Private Meekly, the found blowgun held fast in his fingers.

A sound like rapidly boiling water issued from the creature, a sound of rage. He squeezed Rufus' chest, and the logger could feel his ribs slightly flex under the constricting tentacle around his torso.

Orful put more strength into his crushing attack, determined to finish at least one Racer today, when something struck the back of his fleshy head/body with surprising force, making him loosen his grip of Rufus.

A table leg fell to the floor behind Orful, just as his human opponent fell in front of him.

The octopus swiveled around to see who had attacked him, and saw Sawtooth decimating another table with his powerful incisors, freeing its legs to put in a pile, and throwing one of them, end-over-end at him.

Orful slithered towards the beaver, already considering devouring the pest in front of Rufus to teach the burly fool the price of defiance against his family, but he stopped suddenly upon seeing Clyde and his criminal cohorts walk up beside Sawtooth, and pick up table legs, calmly hitting them against open palms.

The cephalopod looked at the mobsters and read their body language easily. They looked very comfortable, as they spread out and flanked the beast, showing in their eyes, the years and hard experience in using such improvised weapons on the mean streets of the past.

"Okay, boys," Clyde growled. "Let's show dis calamari how da Mob handles disrespect. It's kneecappin' time!"

"But, Clyde," voiced associate Rug-Bug Benny. "Octopuses don't have kneecaps."

Clyde was unperturbed. "Den we'll keep hittin' it 'til somethin' breaks!"

And with that, the Ant Hill Mob drove Orful back to crash chaotically into a set of tables, charging into the defensive forest of tentacles, bashing at them whenever they grabbed a comrade, and smashing them painfully against Orful's body, whenever they saw an opening, threatening to brutally break through his protective mantle.

Even Sawtooth jumped into the fray, sinking his teeth into rubbery octopus limbs wherever he could.

While Rufus slowly stood up and caught his breath, he saw the pile of table legs Sawtooth left behind, and had a good idea.

* * *

On stage, the Slags were doing their best to fight off the fast-moving, pressing attacks of the smaller and dirtier fighting Daltons.

What started, for the cavemen, as an aggressively successful first move with their clubs finding painful contact upon the compact cowboys, quickly turned defensive, when the Daltons slipped into their pockets and employed the old tactical standard for turning tables in a fight, brass knuckles.

Suddenly, the Slags found themselves sore from opportunistic blows and backpedaling all the way to the edge of the stage, using their clubs as makeshift shields.

Stopping at the edge, and hesitating on their next course of action, gave the eager Daltons the moment they needed. With a well-timed strike, both brothers' steel-enhanced fists rocked the two Slags off the stage and down onto a table that Jason just happened to have been hiding under.

Jason, curious at to what had hit his hiding spot, peeked out from under the table cloth to see the two hominids grunt weakly and lie on their hirsute backs, in a daze.

The boy looked up to the stage and saw the triumphant Daltons slap backs in congratulations, pick up the fallen Slags' clubs, and then hop off the stage to promptly beat them to death with their own weapons. As ignominious a death as the cowboys could devise.

Jason stretched out from under the table and gave the Slags reviving slaps on their faces. As the brothers came to, Jason quickly belly-crawled between them and whispered quickly in their ears.

Both Slags managed to get to their feet just before the Daltons arrived to face them, and Jason slinked back under his table. Both sets of brothers circled each other warily.

"Anythin' ta say before we make you two extinct?" asked Dirty cockily.

"Shoot, Dirty," Dastardly joked. "how'd ya know what they were sayin', if'n they _had_ anythin' ta say?"

As the cowboys laughed, Rock and Gravel stopped maneuvering and looked at each other, gave a grunt of determination, reached over, and began to tousle each other's hair, hard.

The Daltons' laughter died away as they saw the strangest thing happen between the cavemen.

As the Slags frantically rubbed each other's heads, the strands of their coarse body hair began to lift and separate slightly, and a nimbus of soft blue electricity started to crackle throughout their bodies and arc between them.

When the Slags were satisfied that they achieved the desired effect, they balled their now glowing fists, and rushed forward faster than the Daltons could react.

Taking a page from their opponent's book, the Slags struck both Daltons in the face at the same time with their static-charged punch.

The strength of the charge, combined with the brutal impact of the synchronous blow, lifted both Daltons, and sent them tumbling through the air, to land in a crashing heap against a pair of tables, their cloths draping over the dazed brothers' bodies like funerary shrouds.

Jason braved the surrounding sounds of violence, to come back out from under the table in time to happily collect the victorious back slaps from the Slag Brothers, who hooted in fraternal triumph.

"I'm glad it worked, too, guys," the boy said, relievedly.

* * *

Orful was finding himself in a violent stalemate, striking and swinging at his attackers one moment, and deflecting and sidestepping blows and beaver bites, the next.

In a moment's curiosity, the sea creature looked around for Rufus. Not being abreast of the man's whereabouts made the animal nervous. But what he saw next, actually made him hesitate.

Lazy Luke, looking not so lazy, received the last of the table legs that Rufus had chopped off of surrounding tables, when he ran out of the ones procured by Sawtooth, and was hammering it, with a spare leg, into the last hole the lumberjack had made earlier in the underside of the overturned table Luke was working on.

The jury-rigged tabletop base and table leg bars of a cage took shape in the hillbilly's inventive hands. All that was needed was the tabletop roof, and an animal that needed caging.

"Alright, Blubber!" Luke called out. "Fling that ovagrown crawdad ova here!"

Orful stopped his pitched battle with the seven men and a beaver to notice, too late, a whimpering bear, with the greatest of reluctance, slap his paws on the octopus's bulbous "head", and, like a squeamish schoolgirl with a gecko in her hand, fearfully toss Orful towards the table-cage.

With a heavy plop, the bulk of Orful fell into the cramped space of the cage, tentacles writhing between a ring of table legs for leverage to push the body out.

Before he could _find_ that leverage, however, Luke and an incoming Blubber gave Rufus scant seconds to slam a holed tabletop into position over the leg-bars, before putting their combined weight on it, the logger hammering the roof onto the legs with the side of his axe.

Orful bubbled in frustration and fear inside his prison, while his opponents and his jailors, congratulated themselves on their hard-won and improvised victory.

* * *

Penelope stirred on the floor where she was left by Daisy, who had been sitting on a table, patiently waiting for her recovery.

"Boy, it took you long enough. I swear, if'n I new yew Southern Belles had such delicate condishuns, I'd've been even more gentler than I _wuz_." Daisy scoffed while Pitstop got unsteadily to her feet.

"I wouldn't worry about my delicate condition, Daisy Mayhem," Penelope muttered, gathering her strength. "You'll find, when you're not busy ambushing me, I'm more than capable of dealing with the likes of you."

'Is dat so?" Daisy said, getting off the table and facing her at a tactical distance. "And how you gonna deal wit da likes o' me, Penelope Pitstop?"

"Like I do with any other swamp rat," Penelope answered, shattering a nearby chair with a swift downward kick. "I give 'em a good stomping."

"Den let's dance!"

Reckless, Daisy rushed forward, and felt the fast, jarring, backhanded blow of Penelope's gloved fist connect with her jaw and rock her into a stop, before a white boot flashed out and kicked into the hillbilly's stomach, launching her back into a table.

"Black belt in Karate," the Racer said. "A girl's got to learn to defend herself these days."

Mayhem wasted what little air hadn't been knocked out of her, cursing up a blue streak while she clumsily tried to pick herself up off the table's remains.

Sooey, meanwhile, was standing some distance away, watching the contest with his one good eye, and grunting cheers of encouragement to his mistress.

"Why, you prissy, pink, pedal-pusha!" Daisy yelled, launching back at Penelope. "I gonna crown yew, princess! Jes yew wait!"

Penelope lashed out with a straight jab, but Daisy was ready. She sidestepped it and grabbed Pitstop's wrist with both hands. Then, she violently pulled back, yanking Penelope out of balance and too far forward.

Still holding her arm, Daisy fell back to the floor, and as Pitstop fell over her, Daisy bent her knees and brought her feet up under the Racer's midsection as she rolled with the fall, and then, kicked off, lifting Penelope high over Daisy, as she let go of her wrist.

Penelope sailed forward from the well-executed monkey flip, and landed on her back, upsetting a table some distance from the Rotten.

From her upside-down position, Penelope slid to the floor and, dazedly, saw Daisy, with confident slowness, walk towards her.

"I don't know nuthin' about no Karate, but when ya gots four brothers who like to roughhouse...ya learn ta roughhouse," Daisy drawled. "Willy, Billy, Freddy and Eddie Mayhem ain't gots nuthin' on me, girly."

With a gleeful whoop at the prospect of a worth challenge, Daisy broke into a run and jumped on top of Penelope, before the Racer could finish righting herself.

Soon enough, the sounds of their struggles began to blend with the remaining close quarters battle still raging out in the ballroom.

* * *

Magic Rabbit ran over to his master, Fondoo, who still hadn't come to from the roundhouse generously given by Professor Pending, and, in fact, was comfortably snoring, by now.

Revenge was first and foremost on the lagomorph's mind, and upon seeing the wretched professor searching around and entering the back stage area…planning to flank Dread as he was dealing with that dandy Perfect, no doubt…the rabbit hatched an idea that was magically malicious.

Climbing up on the magician's chest, Magic undid the clasp behind the bowtie that held Fondoo's cape to his back, then reaching further up, tipped the man's top hat off.

Jumping back down with cape in paw, Magic went to the upended hat, now sitting, upside-down, beside its owner. With a bound, he leaped into the hat, falling deeper than what would be expected for the interior space of a top hat, the cape dragged down into the hat's depths with him.

Backstage, a black, space-defying hole, about the circumference of a top hat, formed over a worktable, allowing Magic and the cape to fall onto the table.

The rabbit heard voices above him high in the stage's fly loft and recognized one in particular. Spurred by that, the rabbit hopped off the table and headed for the ladder that led up to the spanning catwalks.

Dread had thought, earlier, that he had Peter literally dead to rights on stage near the wing, stage-right, where the octopus had dumped him, but the Racer had gotten a second wind and fought him off.

Ever since then, he had been leading Peter on a merry chase back stage, and now, along this swaying, stage light-laden catwalk, high above the stage. With very little room for maneuvering, and a plan to use his own second wind to close with, grapple, and flip Perfect off to his doom, this was a trap Dread could be proud of, under the circumstances.

Dread, stopping at the far end of the service platform, turned to the sound of Peter stomping a distance behind him.

Peter, perhaps foolishly, took a glance over the catwalk and realized just how high he was. Still, the die was cast.

He straightened up and walked forward with more caution, almost knocking over a small pail of chalk used by stage hands to improve their grip on the ropes that crisscrossed and ran all over the loft.

"It's not too late, Dread," Peter reasoned to him. "Call off your Rottens."

"Not likely, Imperfect," said Dread.

"I don't know why you're still taking orders from that Spring fellow. Before all this, you were certain that your dog, Mumbly had sided with the not-so-good doctor, and betrayed you."

"Truth be told, he's not my dog," Dread admitted. "although I had thought about ripping the _Hippocratic Oath _out of Spring for obviously forcing Mumbly to deceive me like that."

"I don't think he's that kind of doctor," Peter corrected him.

Dread waved it aside. "It doesn't matter. It's all water under the bridge, now that I know that it was Muttley who took his place. I knew Mumbly wouldn't turn traitor on me, or the Rottens."

"How could you be so sure?" Peter asked.

"Because although he betrayed his colleagues on the force, and his fool of a police chief, Schnooker, disappeared...under mysterious circumstances, Mumbly was one of the best detectives out there," Dread explained with what Peter could swear sounded like...pride. "And that kind of loyalty, commitment, and leadership were what he gave to the Rotten cause."

That explanation gave Peter pause, and then understanding. "Leadership? You mean _he's_ your-"

Peter stopped his deducing when he heard footfalls behind him. On the far, opposite end of the catwalk, stood Magic Rabbit.

Dread gave a tip of the helmet to the rabbit in acknowledgement. "Ah, Magic! Welcome! What kind of tricks do have in store for our dear Racer?"

Magic lifted the cape by its flared collar, draped it over a nearby stage light, and with a flourish born from years on the stage, pulled the cape away, and the lamp was gone.

"You're next," Dread informed the Racer.

* * *

Far below, in the ruined opulence of the battleground that was once the ballroom, Dinky and Big had fought non-stop, destroying tables and chairs, and demonstrating how nearly matched in power they both were.

None dared interfere. However, Dinky had now outmaneuvered and caught Big in a deadly chokehold. Only the Gruesome's raw strength, in the closest of stalemates, kept his opponent from prevailing. The slightest waver, and the Racer would be dead.

A stage light appeared over the titans and crashed on top of Dinky Dalton's head. His death grip slacken, as did his consciousness, giving Big the avenue he needed to grab the cowboy by the arm, and hammer throw him into the double doors of the ballroom, destroying them as he flew through.

* * *

Peter moved away from the approaching rabbit, and closed in on Dread, as _he_ approached.

As soon as he was close enough, Dread latched hands on Peter, determined to hold him until Fondoo's cape enveloped the Racer and whisk him to who-knows-where. An active volcano, Dread was hoping.

Peter, struggling with Dread, divided his attention between both of Rottens, knowing that if he didn't focus on Dread, he might get the upper hand and dash him to the stage, and if he didn't keep Magic in sight, the rabbit would, perhaps, fatally make him part of the act.

Peter, instead, decided to maintain his balance on the jouncing and twisting catwalk, and deal with whatever happened as it came. Which was exceedingly difficult to do, since it felt like having a wrestling match on a tightrope.

The Racer was momentarily forced back a few steps by the human Rotten, and as Peter saw Magic get into position to cover him with the magic cape, he saw the bucket of chalk near his feet.

Peter quickly held Dread off with one hand, bent low to scoop up a handful of chalk and threw it into Magic's face.

The rabbit coughed and furiously blinked back tears as he frantically wiped at the blinding powder.

His vision painfully bleary, his watery eyes, bloodshot by a terrible degree, Magic tried to focus on the shifting silhouette of Peter up ahead, gaining ground on Dread and pushing _him_ over the catwalk's railing, to hang helplessly from it.

He flapped the cape over the still standing figure, even grinning when he heard a surprised "No!" come from him.

Still grinning proudly, Magic could just make out the helmeted man clambering back onto the catwalk, and as the figure removed the helmet, the mammal peered forward, as his vision cleared, in time to see Peter Perfect throw the Dragoon headgear straight into Magic's face.

The rabbit, concluding that chalk was preferable to a bell-shaped helm to the nose, got knocked back, tumbling into the cape, and as it closed over him, the cape folded flat on the platform.

"I'm beginning to see why they have a dog for a leader," Peter said to himself on the walk back to the catwalk's ladder.

In the ballroom, a now conscious Fondoo stumbled amidst still fighting females, defeated Daltons, crushed Creepleys and a caged cuttlefish, calling out to his pet and stage assistant/assassin.

Immediately overhead, a cursing Dread Baron, materialized above The Great Fondoo, and fell on him, followed shortly by a dazed Magic Rabbit and a German Dragoon Officer's helmet, which promptly clouted its owner on the head.

* * *

Dinky slowly stirred from where he lay on the floor outside Number Three Ballroom, as passersby watched him nervously.

He had to hand it to whichever Racer did it. Few people could bushwhack him with any amount of success and live to talk about it. But then, if that Racer was still in the ballroom, Dinky knew he had a chance to fix that little oversight.

Groggily getting to his feet, he looked around and saw a few patrons conversing with a pair of security guards, and pointing in his general direction. Obviously, they were going to investigate his little tussle with Big.

That wasn't good. The doctor said no witness, but even Dinky Dalton knew better than to stand his ground and fight off security, for the simple fact that although he may have been stronger than them, he was also unarmed.

Dinky walked unsteadily back.

In the ballroom, both groups of people, tired, bruised and unbowed, faced each other one more time in a central space cleared of tables and chairs, determined to be victorious or die trying.

A whistle from Dinky caused every Rotten to turn his and her head to the sound. It was well-known among them. A signal of warning.

"C'mon, Rottens, let's skedaddle!" said Dirty.

The group broke and ran from the confused Racers, raced to the ruined doorway, and saw the gathering guards,

"Don't worry," Fondoo whispered. "I'll get us out of here."

He raised his wand slightly, pointed at the Rottens next to him, and said, "Invisible."

A force, like ten Dinky Daltons, shoved all of the Rottens together and compressed them into each other, looking as though they were stuck in a tiny, invisible elevator. They couldn't move their upper extremities and could barely move their collective legs.

"Nice work, Fondoof. More like _Indivisible_," Dread muttered in the crush. "Wait for my signal, and then follow my lead."

When the guards were momentarily distracted by another patron, Dread grunted his signal, and the cluster of Rottens slipped quickly away in the cover of the crowds.

When the guards finally rushed into the ballroom, it was wrecked, and it was deserted.

It wouldn't be for another hour until the guards discovered the rear loading door that Professor Pending had found, back stage, torn off its acid-weakened hinges by a monster's love-tap, sitting useless in the center's back alley.


	9. 9

9~

"Yes, send a cab over to the parking lot of the Crystal Cove Convention Center. Four C, yes, and please, hurry," Doctor Spring said into his cell phone, then he leaned against his car and pocketed the phone.

Sitting on the trunk nearby, was his most prized possession on this entire trip, a boxy, sensor unit from Sundial, full of money-making data he collected on his sojourns through town. Piles of cash filled the doctor's mind with the completion of this caper. There was only the cab to wait for.

From where he waited, he saw a familiar, but ragged, group shuffle with some haste out of the main entrance of the center, heading for the vast parking lot.

"Hey!" Spring called out, when it looked like the Rottens were going to pass him by. "Did you remove our mutual threat?"

The group, still bound by Fondoo's wayward spell, shuffled over to the doctor.

"We had to remove ourselves from the act," the magician reported. "Security was crawling all over the place."

"Why are you still here?" Dread asked.

"We thought ya hauled tail, long ago," Daisy added.

Spring almost felt embarrassed for saying so, but told them, "My car broke down. I'm waiting for a cab. Ugh, this is last time I rent from a guy named Flim-"

His attention was diverted upon seeing a second group of people coming from around the back of the building in a run, a camera crew hot on their heels.

"The Racers!" he warned them. "They followed you!" He reached over and grabbed the white, boxy device from the trunk lid, and held it protectively.

The Racers, Marcie and Jason surrounded Spring and the Rottens, and at that moment, the spell wore off, and the Rottens separated in a fall.

"Indivisible, indeed," muttered Fondoo, standing again.

"Don't try to run, you guys," Marcie exclaimed. "Sheriff Stone and his men are on their way here."

"Try to run?" Spring asked in a self-satisfied purr. "My dear girl, why ever would I try to run?"

"Uh, because you tried to run _earlier_." she answered.

The doctor chuckled and waved it off. "Remember when I said I had quite a way out? Well, my dear, even though my plans may _look _thwarted by you meddlesome kids, the brilliant thing about time travel-"

He turned the device over in his hands and pressed a fat, red button marked _RECALL_.

To everyone's eyes, the impossible had occurred. A gleaming white robot, with golden trim and the Sundial logo, a stylized sundial embossed on its chest, flashed into existence. It was easily as large as an office building, and took up space where it stood on both the sidewalk and the street.

"-is that you can always start over again!" Spring finished for effect.

Although mostly Racer and Rotten was struck dumb by the arrival of this imposing machine, Professor Pending, Marcie and Jason, spurred on, more by scientific fascination, at the moment, than fear of their impending deaths, found their voices.

"Is that what I think it is?" Jason incredulously asked Marcie.

"I think so!" Marcie answered back. "T.H.R.O.B.A.C! Tampered History-"

"Rectifying Observational-" Jason chimed in agreement.

"Base And Combatant! Yes!" the professor finished, overhearing the two.

Clyde Barrel spoke up. "What's does all dat mean, Professa?"

Pat answered soberly. "It's a giant war robot that travels through time."

"I read in _The Geekly Weekly_ that it was built to observe and fix any historical errors that would crop up due to Sundial's excessive time travel. It was still in the prototype stage," Marcie said. "I guess crushing us will be its first field test!"

Spring turned to Dread, pressing another button his device, and giving him a pitying smile. "Did you really think I went through the trouble of helping you, just so you could have a new show?"

Dread said, simply, "Yes."

As the robot kneeled in the street and brought out its industrial-strength hand to carefully hold Spring, the man laughed, full and loud.

"You moron. I just needed the Wacky Racers and you criminals goons to trip all over yourselves as cover to keep everybody from noticing me, while I took my readings and gave Sundial false reports to keep them happy. With this new real-time data I've collected, my client will double, or even triple my fee!"

The robot brought the cradling hand up to its head, a huge, bubble-domed, gyroscopically stable cockpit. The dome swung back, and Spring let himself fall into the wide seat below. As the canopy closed again, the doctor took his remote control/sensor unit and inserted it into a wide holding slot in the instrument dashboard.

Spring then put on a headset, and lined the mic up with his cheek.

"When T.H.R.O.B.A.C's Hour Tower builds up enough power," Spring's voice boomed from the robot's external speakers. "I'll go back in time before I ever met you Really Rockheads, and just play history out _without_ your presence. Everything that's happening now, will be undone, and you kids won't have the chance to interfere, if there's no mystery to be solved. My plan to sell my data should be even more streamlined, then!"

With that, the robot straightened back to its impressive height and stood there, waiting. The only sound punctuating the moment was the faint and growing hum of its internal time machine, or Hour Tower, powering up.

Peter turned to his fellow Racers.

"If he gets away, everything he and these Rottens have perpetrated will no longer exist, but Doctor Spring will still be able to get away with his ill-gotten gain. We cannot allows this! For our good name, for the Red Max, and yes, even for Dick Dastardly. Racers! Stop that blackguard!"

With a roar of righteous indignation and agreement, the rest of the Wacky Racers, Marcie and Jason ran to their cars in the lot.

Dread turned to the Rottens. "The doc stabbed us in the back, Rottens. So, let's show him what a really rotten backstab feels like!"

With a similar roar for destruction, vengeance and hopefully, some bloodshed, the Really Rottens...ran to _their_ cars.

The Racers were about to split up and man their vehicles, when they saw the Rottens split up and head for cars they hadn't noticed or seen before. In spite of the situation, the Racers, as a whole, slowed down, and watched the Rottens become the Racers they schemed so hard to be.

Daisy jogged over to a light candy apple green and dark green dune buggy hot rod, its front dominated by a huge intake scoop coming out of the hood, a lower suspension, and a rear end so high, to accept the huge, wide back tires it sported, that one could clearly see the custom shock absorbers underneath that raised it.

Daisy hopped in the driver's seat, and noticed Penelope staring at the hotrod, while Sooey clambered into the front passenger seat.

"Cain't take ya eyes of it, huh?" she asked cockily, turning the key and hearing the engine growl. "It's muh baby, the _Backwoods Bombshell_, an ethanol-burnin' street beast. Maybe after we Rottens take care o' this mess, I'll blow thuh doors off o' yor Alleycat, there."

"Challenge accepted, anytime, Mayhem," Penelope nodded before heading to the Pussycat.

Pat Pending was intrigued at the sleek, low, black sports car with crimson trim running along its sides, and that the fact that it belonged to Fondoo.

The magician and rabbit assistant gracefully got in, and Fondoo laughed at the professor's attention.

"You're not the only one who can change the odds for a win, Professor!" The Great Fondoo exclaimed, tapping his wand to the dashboard.

A huge cloud of purplish-blue smoke exploded around the car, consuming it. When the smoke cleared Fondoo and Magic Rabbit were sitting on a night-black flying carpet with red tassels surrounding it. Another tap of the wand on the carpet, another explosion of purplish-blue smoke, and the car appeared again.

"Say hello to the _Abra-car-dabra_!" said Fondoo proudly. He touched the wand against the steering wheel and the car smoothly started up.

The Daltons marched over to a dark brown and sand-colored monster truck, adorned in a longhorn steer's skull on the hood, that towered over every other car in the lot.

Dirty and Dastardly pulled the chains to the swing-out ladders that were hinged to the undercarriage of the cab, and climbed to the driver and passenger seats of the truck, while Dinky opened the rear door to the cargo bed and climbed in.

Since Dinky could never fit in the cab, accommodations were made for him in the rear. Dinky grabbed a metal ring handle on the floor of the bed and pulled, opening and extending a padded chair, as wide as a typical backseat, built into a well in the floor.

As he made himself comfortable, his brothers whooped when the engine roared.

"Let's see y'all try ta pass the _Hustlin' Rustler_!" Dirty yelled over the engine noise. "Y'all'll wind up with horns where da sun don't shine!"

The Creepleys and their pet, almost unnoticed, slinked into what could charitably be called their family car. An odd, eye-catching mélange of extreme hot rod engineering, sport utility vehicle foundations, and horror themes, packaged in a garish green and black paint job, the car, identified by its vanity plates as the _RIP-SUV_, revved its engine, scaring bats out of the rear passenger area's windows.

A lone blood-red sports car, sporting blue-black accents and unobtrusive panels that hid nasty things, was parked a distance from the other strange cars. Its owner, the Dread Baron walked to it.

He absently stroked the smooth fender. It would be the first time he would put his car, the _Coupe Devil_, through its paces, and without Mumbly by his side. To do unto the Racers, and then have it done unto them. Was it worth it, this whole scheme?

"If we get out of this, I'll bring you back, Mumbly," Dread said to himself as he slid into the deep driver's seat. "My vow."

He turned the key, and the _Devil_ snarled into life.

As the Racers leaped into their vehicles, Marcie went to her convertible, Jason following close behind.

She started the car up and backed out of the parking lot, nervously watching the robotic colossus still standing on the curb, unmoving, not attacking. Then she took off, leaving downtown.

"Where are we going?" Jason asked.

"The sheriff let the Red Max go. I think he's going to want to help his friends, and if so, he's going to need his car. And a little something else," Marcie explained on her way to police headquarters.

* * *

All of the cars peeled out of the parking lot moments before T.H.R.O.B.A.C., under an impatient Spring, strode in to crush them all underfoot.

The cars drove up the now deserted street. Traffic, having seen the towering machine, back up and stopped a few blocks away from the convention center. Local news helicopters maintained holding patterns, reporting the chaotic state of things happening in downtown Crystal Cove.

The Racers and Rottens gathered two blocks from the center, waiting for Spring to make his next move. They could feel the tremors through the floorboards of their vehicles when T.H.R.O.B.A.C. ponderously walked out of the parking lot and slowly marched towards them.

Sergeant Blast slumped in his seat in the _Special's_ turret. The venom made him so weak, weaker than he ever felt, which, to him, was rare. But he was in his seat, sitting on serious firepower, and it was high time the crazy doctor found that out.

He lightly pulled the yoke that controlled aim, and the turret gradually rotated until it was lined up on-target, more or less, due to his lack of focus. Then he squeezed the trigger, having to hunch and grunt in effort to do it.

The cannon roared at the robot, and the raw impact and power of the shell detonated against the shin armor T.H.R.O.B.A.C.'s right leg, caving it in, and blowing a devastating gash inside, effectively crippling it.

The robot's internal gyroscopic compensation, however, did its job, shifting angle and weight to the good leg and rerouting motive power to it, as well.

T.H.R.O.B.A.C. raised an arm and made a fist. A missile pod extended up from the back of its hand, and the doctor fired one locked-on missile at the _Army Surplus Special_.

The missile streaked to the car's position, forcing Meekly to gun it in reverse at almost the last minute.

The resultant crater in the asphalt and the pressure wave from the blast nearly upended the combat vehicle from the miss, and set off every car alarm in the area.

Meekly shook his head slowly, trying to clear it of the head-crunching force of the shock wave. He looked up and called out to his CO. There was only silence above him.

He climbed up to the turret, and saw the sergeant laid back in his seat, already weakened from the poison, and now unconscious from the blast.

Meekly turned to call out to the other Racers. "I'm going to take the Sarge out of here. Rip that tin can apart!"

A shout of affirmatives followed the tank-like _Special's_ wake as it trundled further up the street to safety and, hopefully, medical aid.

"Blast's been blasted by the blast," Spring crowed through the robot's external speakers. "Anyone else feeling alliterative?"

In the _Arkansas Chugabug_, something, too, was happening. Luke was getting _angry_.

"My gran'pappy served in the Great War. Ain't no way fer a civilian ta treat an enlisted man," Luke simmered. "Blubber, get ready to take the wheel, boy!"

The bear began to wonder what Luke was planning to do, but when the moonshine jug came out from the space under the crude dashboard, and Luke stuffed a dirty piece of cloth down into the jug's neck, he knew what was going to happen.

The _Chugabug_ tore down the street, narrowly swerving away from missiles as it closed with the robot, particularly, its injured leg.

Luke stood up in front of the sole rocking chair seat that he and Blubber shared, as the bear reached forward to take the wheel.

With wind in his greasy hair, heart pounding, and indignation motivating his every near-suicidal action, the hillbilly lit the rag of his moonshine Molotov cocktail, and then, giving a wail of a rebel yell that almost sounded supernatural, he threw the bomb into the hole made by Blast's shot.

As Blubber made a bootlegger turn behind T.H.R.O.B.A.C.'s heel and jetted out from between the robot's feet, the inner components of the right leg badly caught fire.

The internal fire suppression systems were fighting a pitched battle with the inferno raging in the limb, and the doctor cursed at the drivers, as T.H.R.O.B.A.C.'s limp became more pronounced, its maneuverability became more labored, and electronic systems connected to the leg began to fail.

Heartened by Luke's attack, the Racers and the Rottens, as one mind, put aside their mutual animosity, and decide to attack as one.

_The Rotten Racers._

The _Compact Pussycat _and the _Backwoods Bombshell _pulled ahead of the pack. From the dashboard monitors of both cars, a targeting reticule moved and swayed up to the cockpit of T.H.R.O.B.A.C. When the reticules flashed in the red, both women depressed a firing button near their monitors.

The _Pussycat's_ trunk opened and a small launch rack holding two missiles extended from its depths.

From the _Bombshell_, its backseat split in two, and the two halves opened like silo doors, revealing a similar rack of twin missiles rising from the car.

Both pairs of missile flew from the cars before Spring could initiate electronic countermeasures, and he had to duck as the projectiles' warheads punched through the canopy without shattering it.

Spring fearfully lifted his head to see the missiles sticking out of the canopy, like the radians of a crown._ Were they duds?_ he wondered.

The explosions that came from the warheads, answered his question, suddenly, but, surprisingly, he felt no pain.

At least, not to his body, overall. Only his eyes and his lungs.

The cockpit was filled with the combined blasts of pressurized powder that was freed from the warheads. In his agony, he could smell what was assaulting him so.

"Talcum...powder..." Spring choked in surprise. "and...tobacco dust?"

Sitting up again and fighting to see the controls, he managed to move T.H.R.O.B.A.C.'s arm and hand to pluck the spent missiles from the damaged canopy, but couldn't see well enough to steer, and so, the robot lost balance against it near-ruined leg, and fell to its hands and knees in a thunderous crash.

With the canopy cleared of obstructions, Spring opened it to clear the smoke away. As his vision became better, he saw Rufus' Buzzwagon literally tear up the street, heading for him.

The logger drove his wooden car up onto the back of the missile-loaded hand, then the articulated wrist, and then, incredibly, up the near-vertical lengths of the arm. The teeth of his sawblade wheels clawing into the armor and giving it purchase, just as it ripped and tore length-long scars into said armor, destroying its integrity.

When he reached the summit of the arm, its shoulder, Rufus stopped the car, slammed one foot on the brake, and smashed the other on the gas pedal, hard, the "tires" carving a deep, damaging gash into the shoulder joint and associated linkages. He then drove haphazardly down the arm's length before T.H.R.O.B.A.C.'s surviving arm raised its hand and tried to crush the driver.

When Rufus and Sawtooth were clear, Dread drove up to make his attack run. He pressed a glowing red button on his steering wheel, popping open two hatches in the car's forward trunk and revealing two lean machine guns.

A tiny thumb wheel built into the steering wheel swiveled the guns, and when they were lined up with the ripped open arm, Dread squeezed the grip of the steering wheel, unleashing a barrage of incendiary bullets that drove into the stricken limb, exploding and destroying its innards.

Spring gritted his teeth as damage reports from the monitors in front of him flashed news worse than what he surmised from seeing the destruction with his own eyes.

Still, he managed to scramble to the canopy controls and slammed it closed when he saw the Slag Brothers and the Ant Hill Mob drive up to the machine, throwing their petrified wooden clubs, and opening fire with their Tommy guns, cracking the high-visibility dome badly.

The Hustlin' Rustler ran idle literally behind the robot's..._behind_, its longhorn steer skull lifted to reveal the nozzle of a concealed and protected flamethrower. With a flick of a switch, a stream of fire scorched T.H.R.O.B.A.C.'s posterior.

The Convert-a-Car drifted to the back of the still kneeling robot, transforming into a mech-spider with magnetic legs and drill bit feet, which it used to climb up the back of one of the robot's legs, until it stood on T.H.R.O.B.A.C.'s back, while the robot clumsily tried to stand again.

At Pat's command, the bits in the car's two forward legs bored deep into the robot's back, shredding conduits that supplied signal traffic to the hard-working gyros, causing the robot to lurch, its back, smoking.

The doctor struggled to control the robot, to shake the pest loose, as monitors and function lights winked on and off, due to intermittent failure and electrical burnout creepage.

He may have known about its features and functions, but he realized, ruefully, that it was downright risky, if not reckless, to engage the drivers below with only his rudimentary knowledge on how to pilot T.H.R.O.B.A.C.

He had hoped that the robot's weapons and sturdy, albeit_ untested,_ construction would make up for it, but the cars and their more aggressively experienced drivers continued to circle and pick their opportunities to strike, using hit and run attacks to whittle the mechanical giant's strength away with a ruthless effectiveness that would have made pack hunters proud.

At the moment, however, its struggling sturdiness was the only thing keeping it together, as a desperate Dr. Spring had T.H.R.O.B.A.C. try to stand using its one good arm to hold and prop up against a nearby shop, demolishing it under its weight, as it stood.

Of the surviving monitors that Spring studied, one finally gave him the hope he needed to get through this surprisingly one-sided battle. The Hour Tower was a hair's breadth from being completely charged.

"Yes! Good thing I didn't use the _energy_ weapons and drain the charge," Spring breathed relievedly. Then he flipped the switch to the external speakers.

"Wacky Racers! Really Rottens! You_ all_ failed! You may have done my T.H.R.O.B.A.C. considerable damage, but it's too little, too late! Nothing will hinder my escape now. Better luck..._next time_!"

A still-working proximity sensor warned of approaching vehicles. The doctor turned to the direction they were coming from, up the street.

Marcie's VW convertible sped towards the immense automaton, standing between her and the pack of cars gathered on the other side of T.H.R.O.B.A.C.

Spring almost smiled at her approach. She could do nothing to him, except sadly watch him slip safely into the past, in the next few moments.

Suddenly the doctor frowned in concern at the sight of the second vehicle following hers. An earthbound warplane that bounded in higher and higher arcs, as it speed increased.

Maximillian Von Doofliger flew towards his opponent in ever increasing heights, hungry for vengeance.

The Crimson Haybaler's engine and propeller made a roar of effort he had never heard before, as he gripped the steering wheel, and held his foot down on the accelerator, pushing the hybrid to the breaking point to build up the speed, and therefore, the lift necessary to fly high enough to dive down Doctor Spring's throat.

"Did you stop him?" Marcie asked the combined group of Racers and Rottens after she parked near them.

"We did as much damage as we could," Daisy said to her. "But dat thing's tuffer an' meaner than my ol' man on a bender."

"It's _that_ tough?" asked Jason, worryingly.

"In that case," Marcie fretted. "I hope my little gift to Max will be enough."

Daisy turned a quizzical eye to the teen. "Whut gift?"

"You're too late, Max!" the taunt came from T.H.R.O.B.A.C.'s speakers. The doctor directed the machine to activate the missile pod in its ruined arm, reach over with its good arm, and lift it up, awkwardly trying to point the whole limb at the leaping Haybaler.

Missiles flew from the arm without the benefit of working fire control software, capriciously striking around the evasively hopping hybrid, putting craters in the street and blasting holes in buildings that flanked it.

The Red Max answered fire with fire, opening up with the Haybaler's machine guns at long range, perforating the already weakened canopy, shattering it and blasting Spring back against his seat in an agonizing maelstrom of whirling high-impact polymer shards.

Marcie and Jason braced themselves upon hearing the reports of projectiles and bullets up ahead. Then, they turned, as did everyone else, to the sound of diesel engines and determination.

To the cheers of those assembled, the _Army Surplus Special _rumbled back into the battle, like the war machine that was its inspiration, again, driven by Private Meekly. The turret above was ominously empty.

The vehicle kept rolling until it stopped far ahead of the cluster of parked cars. Then Meekly jumped out of the jeep section of the hybrid, and scrambled up into the turret.

The private first class rotated the gun as fast as he could, to capitalize on the doctor's preoccupation with Max, aiming the cannon directly at the two smoking holes in the giant's back.

"For you, Sarge," Meekly whispered, then squeezed the trigger.

The shell bolted from the muzzle, striking the back and ripping it open with enough force to almost lift T.H.R.O.B.A.C. off its feet.

Marcie reacted upon seeing the powerful glowing, pulsing machine exposed in the robot's breached back.

"There it is! That's the Hour Tower!" she exclaimed to the others. "We have to take that out!"

With that, The Great Fondoo magically transformed the _Abra-car-dabra_ into a flying carpet once more, this time allowing Mrs. Creepley to board it. Then, it ascended.

At the same time, the _Creepy Coupe _rolled up behind the battling robot. From the high window of its belfry, the car's resident witch leaned out and pointed her wand at the sky directly over T.H.R.O.B.A.C.

Fondoo raised his wand and, likewise, aimed skyward, while Mrs. Creepley looked unexpectedly solemn, raising her thin arms to the heavens and chanting, profoundly.

Storm clouds grumbled, thickened and rolled overhead, and Fondoo, remembering, at last, how faulty his magic was, yelled out the word, _lighting_, instead of lightning. He felt foolish, but it worked, surprisingly.

The thunderclouds darkened and growled like a living beast, and suddenly, vicious thunderbolts lanced down towards T.H.R.O.B.A.C., but, either due to the exotic materials, or the power-hungry nature of the Hour Tower, the lightning didn't crash down upon Dr. Spring from his cockpit, killing him instantly, but curved and bent into the center of the robot's chest, causing the time machine within to incandesce like a nova.

The titan spasmed and stumbled like a drunkard from an overload of raw voltage, just as the Crimson Haybaler, vaulting as high as its weight and speed would allow, flew into a collision course with the colossus's broad plastron.

He spared seconds to mutter bitterly, "Auf Wiedershen."

The Red Max reached between his legs, grabbed the flask of mercury fulminate Marcie had given him, and hastily threw it high, end-over-end in a high, forceful arc towards the robot's chest.

The World War I ace then twisted the steering wheel to the side, executing a tight wing-over that had him narrowly sailing past the T.H.R.O.B.A.C., as the car's trajectory began to go earthward.

The flask impacted against the already tortured frame of T.H.R.O.B.A.C., detonating the compound, breaching through the armor, and coring the Hour Tower out of its ruptured, gaping back.

Marcie's, Racers' and Rottens' cars scattered out of the way of the falling machinery, and the time machine landed in the street, a tumbling, wrecked heap, before the Haybaler bounced and skidded to a stop.

Marcie, from her car, studied the horrible condition of the huge machine. She could only image the battle that was joined to defeat the greedy, malicious scientist, and despite all of the damage it received, she felt some pity for T.H.R.O.B.A.C.'s designers and assemblers. It was a good bet that they didn't want to put it through the wringer like this.

Still, it _was_ a prototype designed to defend again such hearty attacks. Maybe Sundial will learn from this and improve upon it in the robot's next iteration.

Then, impossibly, T.H.R.O.B.A.C. slowly turned, and Marcie and Jason looked at the monster in disbelief.

"You know," Marcie told Jason. "I won't be the least bit surprised if everyone turned their cars around, and didn't stop driving until they reach Needles._ I'm_ certainly feeling tempted."

Then, T.H.R.O.B.A.C., _finally_ giving up the proverbial ghost, ponderously fell to its knees, pulverizing the asphalt beneath them, and then tipped forward, descending like a felled tree, and spilling out, from the blighted cockpit, a screaming Doctor Maynard Spring.

Below, mere yards from where T.H.R.O.B.A.C. came to its rest, an unflappable Peter Perfect leaned over the nose of his Turbo Terrific, his foot on one of its small, front tires, calmly sipping a cup of tea.

He remained thus, even when he heard the cringeworthy sound of the wayward scientist falling bodily across the dragster's nose. He did, however, look up to see what hit his car, and sniffed disdainfully at the mess of a man.

"Let that be a warning to you, ruffian," Peter coolly chastised. "You mess with a Racer, _or_ a Rotten, and you get wrecked. Now, please, get off my car. You're scuffing the finish."

Spring raised his head to give a reply, realized he was too tired to give it, and collapsed on the nose again.

From behind an untouched car, a safe distance from the action, the producer stood from his observational hiding place in back of the camera crew, looking very excited.

"TELL ME YOU GOT THAT!" he screamed, visions of prime-time Emmys dancing in his eyes.

The camera crew took their faces from their cameras and intoned together, "We got it."

The producer shrieked like a boy on Christmas morn. "YEAH!"

Marcie stepped out of her car upon seeing police cruisers coming up the street.

"_Now_ they show up," she groused as Stone slowly drove up and surveyed the wreckage on the street, and the rest of the Racers swarmed the _Crimson Haybaler_, and welcomed the Red Max warmly back into the fold.

"Well, Mayor Nettles is going to be pulling her hair out coming up with the budget to fix this mess," Marcie commiserated to the sheriff while he parked.

"I'll tell her to bill it to those Sunbeam eggheads," Stone suggested as he stepped out of his cruiser. "Maybe it'll teach them to keep a better eye on their _other_...eggheads."

"Where _were_ you, anyway?" she asked, annoyed. "You took forever to get here."

The sheriff ignored her stern gaze. "Well, you see, when we heard reports that a thirty foot robot was wreaking havoc downtown, I decided, as sheriff, that I could protect my men better, from heavy casualties, by leaving well enough alone."

He heard the girl's exasperated sigh as he walked over to the defeated Dr. Spring.

"Okay, pal," he said to him, pulling him off the Turbo Terrific to stand and be handcuffed. "Let's go. You won't be able to think your way outta this."

After putting Spring in the back of his car, he went back to Marcie, looking around the battlefield.

"Where's the rest of them?" he asked her. "Where are the Rottens?"

"Huh?" she, herself, asked, looking around, and not seeing a single Rotten in the street. "They must have flown the coop. I guess they they're on their way to Needles."

"Huh?"

"Nothing. Just thinking."

Stone growled in annoyance at his own cowardice. Only he and the teens even noticed the Rottens' disappearance, so thankful were the Racers at having Max with them again. If he was here during the battle, he and his men could have kept a close eye on the perpetrators. Now, he'd have a hard time filling paperwork and explaining the Rottens' absence.

Marcie leaned against her convertible and heard Jason tell her, "That was a good idea, driving back to the house and getting the mercury fulminate."

Marcie shrugged. "I figured Max would need all the firepower he could get."

"Uh, did I hear him say you _drove_ a car, just now?" Stone asked, overhearing.

"Yeah," she said. "This is my car."

"Really?" Stone asked, genuinely surprised to see a bookwork like her with her own set of wheels. "And just how old are you?"

"Seventeen. Got my licence not too long ago. Why?"

Stone stood his usually stiff way, all business, and said. "Licence and registration, please?"

Marcie was a bit taken aback by all of this. She knew it was his job to ask, but it seemed such a bother, right now.

"Don't worry, Sheriff, I have my licence with me," Marcie sighed, waving the concern away. "I wouldn't be dumb enough to just get my licence, and not have it with me."

Marcie checked her pockets, and there was no card. She patted herself, and the longer she couldn't feel the card, the more nervous she got.

"I've got everything under the sun in there, but not my _licence_?" she asked herself, irritably.

"Jason," she called into the car. "Do you see my licence in there?"

The portly teen checked the driver's side floor, the sun visors, and the glove compartment.

"I don't see it, Marcie," he told her. "Sorry."

Marcie found herself laughing nervously and not wanting to, knowing how this was going to end for her.

"Wow, uh, I guess I must have left it at home."

Stone leaned into her car and said to Jason, calmly, "Son, I think you better inform Miss Fleach's father of the situation. She might not be home for dinner tonight."

Marcie glum expression was rivaled only by the smile Bronson Stone gave her in smug triumph.


	10. Epilogue

_Epilogue~_

A few hours' drive from Crystal Cove, in Hollywood, stood HC Productions, the studio that put, among other things, Wacky Races, on the map.

Outside the office of the studio's president, a busy, solitary secretary chattered into her headset.

"HC Productions, please hold. HC Productions, please hold. HC Productions, please hold..."

Inside the President's Office, a well-tailored man, seated in a high back chair, watched on the wide screen TV hanging on the far wall, the raw footage of the fight between The Racers and the Rottens in the convention center, and the battle outside with both groups against the giant robot.

The man leaned into the intercom, that stood next to a small framed photo of Penelope Pitstop, on his stately desk, and purred, "Barbera, get Wilcox in Legal. Tell him to draw up some contracts."

The man turned in his chair to face the desk. He straightened his tie and smoothed his auburn hair self-consciously. Image, to him, was as important as success. In fact, he would say that one often led to the other.

"Right away, Mr. Sneakly," the voice buzzed from the intercom.

"I think I've just found my next big hit," the president of Hooded Claw Productions slyly thought aloud.

With images of new characters injecting even newer, and more exciting, forms of bad attitude on television, thus creating even more success for his thriving business, Sylvester Sneakly gave himself a satisfied chortle.

* * *

"Dead nerd, walking!" Sheriff Stone unabashedly called out as he entered the holding cell room at police headquarters, where Marcie was, again, cooling her heels.

"Aren't you supposed to say that while I'm being taken away from my cell?" she asked while lounging on the cell's cot.

"Just keeping in practice, jailbird," Stone said smugly. "I just came by to tell you that you have a visitor."

Marcie sat up anxiously. "My father?"

"No, not him. Some _people_, out here, seemed to believe that you had something to do with solving a mystery and clearing someone's name, or some such nonsense like that."

"Wait a minute," Marcie said, walking up to the bars, curious as to who had come to see her. "I thought you said I had a visitor. Singular. Now, you're saying _people?_"

Caught by her logical observation of his faux pas, Stone bristled and said, "_Whatever_. Those _Racers_ are here to see you."

He left the room and The Slag Brothers, The Gruesomes, Prof. Pending, The Red Max, Penelope Pitstop, Private Meekly minus Sergeant Blast, Lazy Luke and Blubber Bear, Peter Perfect, Rufus Ruffcut and Sawtooth, and The Ant Hill Mob, with Muttley bringing up the rear, marched in to take the officer's place, gathering by the front of Marcie's cell.

"Hey, guys," she greeted them.

"We heard about you getting the ticket," Penelope said. "Are you going to be alright, Sugah?"

"Yeah," Marcie shrugged. "It turns out that Jason was sitting on it, the whole time. I swear, he can hide a phonebook under that butt of his. Anyway, a deputy told me that I'll have to go to traffic court, but I can bring Jason with me as a witness. Once he tells the judge that I had my licence and registration with me at the time I got my ticket, it'll get dismissed."

She looked to the private and noticed the absence of his CO.

"I heard that one of you was hurt battling Doctor Spring," she said, more to Meekly, than to the others. "How is the Sarge?"

"The Sarge will be okay," Meekly said, the relief clear in his eyes. "The old warhorse is in the hospital getting cleaned of that poison. He'll be barkin' orders at me by the start of the race, in no time."

"I'm glad."

Muttley stepped forward to see the girl who did so much for the group, as a whole, and for him, personally.

He barked as close to a recognizable language as he could approximate, with Peter acting as translator.

"He wanted to say thanks to you and the chubby boy for all of the hard work you both have done in exposing the Rottens as the kidnappers," Peter told her. "Because we still have Mumbly, the Rottens have offered up Dick in exchange, and we will make the switch sometime tomorrow."

"Well, thank _you_ for that message in the hard drive," Marcie said to the dog. "It came in very handy in our investigation. Not to mention, it was pretty brave of you to infiltrate the Rottens like that, for your friend."

Muttley shied away from the compliment with a big toothed grin, and growled, "Aw, shucks."

The group of Racers then parted, and with military stiffness, the Red Max walked to the jailed girl, and solemnly presented himself to her, as though he was visiting a hero of the state.

"Young girl, you have saved my reputation, as a pilot, as a competitor, and as a citizen of the world, and have given me back my good name. Though my home is many years away, and my old life is gone, you have restored my tomorrows, and I will always consider you a member of my Wacky family, for that."

Now it was Marcie's turn to feel bashful for the naked praise she was receiving.

"Ich wäre stolz, ein Teil Ihrer Familie zu sein,"("I would be proud to be a part of your family,") she said in demure German.

With that, Max shattered the quietude with a boisterous, Teutonic laugh and made a suggestion that just came to him on the spot. One, he was confident, all would be in wholehearted accord with.

"If she is a member of der family, that makes her an honorary Wacky Racer," he proclaimed. "And since she is a Racer, now, vhen her car has come out of der impound, it must haff a name, befitting a Racer. So, Marcie, vhat vill you call your car?"

Marcie blinked at that notion. She had just gotten her very own car not that long ago, and already, she was being immersed in the car culture.

The idea of naming one's car was, at once, a singular eccentricity, and wholly personal endeavor that she long thought was the prerogative of only the male car lover.

Yet, even the cultured Penelope Pitstop had her _Compact Pussycat_. Feminine empowerment, it seemed to Marcie, took many forms.

A thought came to her. A comfortably logical thought.

"Well, I guess, since I, along with Jason, solved the mystery," Marcie decided, giving a self-conscious smile, and feeling as though her choice was both permanent, and as important to her life as picking out her wedding china. "I suppose I'll call my car, the _Clue Cruiser_."

The Racers nodded and murmured in mutual acceptance.

"Then you vill need this," the Red Max told her.

With that same military crispness, the pilot presented to her, a large, oval decal of a stylized W sitting in the center of a green background. The emblem of the Wacky Races that every car displayed.

"I'll put it on my car with pride," Marcie said, soberly. "Thank you."

"Okay, everybody, the meeting of the Mutual Admiration Society is over," Stone scoffed from the doorway. "Time to go."

As the Racers filed out of the cell room, Pat Pending turned and added, at the last minute, "Oh, when you get your car out of the impound, let me know. If I have time, I'll give it a tweak or two before race day."

"You would? Really? Thank you, Professor! Thank you!" Marcie beamed in her cell. Here she was, languishing in a holding cell, and her favorite Racer was offering to modify her car. For free.

'_Bitchin''_, she thought.

When the cell room was empty of guests and quiet again, she went back to her cot and contentedly laid back down, contemplating a myriad of modifications to squeeze into her VW.

"Quite a big fan club you got, there," came a boy's voice from the dimness of the other cell.

"Just showing their appreciation for something I did for them, that's all," Marcie said from her cot.

"You a detective, or something?" the voice asked.

Marcie thought before she answered, then decided, after everything that happened, there was no reason to think otherwise. "Perhaps."

There was a space of silence. Then the voice asked, "You got time for another case?"

"Until my dad comes to pick me up," the girl said, simply. "I've got nothing better to do."

The sound of cowboy boots heralded the approach of a tall boy of late teens with a stocky build coming to the bars to lean wearily against them.

He wore the uniform of the troublemaker, the bad boy. A pair of well-worn jeans, a long, loose t-shirt, a sleeveless, high-collar leather vest, and a tattoo of a heart with an arrow driven through it.

He glanced over at Marcie's cell. The worry was slight, but still perceptible, even under the freckled, pugnacious face and the fiery cloud of curly hair.

"What's your name?" he asked. "Mine's Red."

"Marcie," she said, approaching her bars to see who she was talking to. "Alright, Red. What seems to be the problem?"

* * *

The neighborhood of the police impound lot enjoyed a period of calm and peace that night, after the chaos of the day.

The well-placed bomb _destroyed_ that peace, and a good portion of the impound lot.

Deputies scrambled like irritated ants, calling the fire department and Sheriff Stone, and securing what they could of the lot.

A white, generic-looking truck, ignored by the officers in this new chaos that raged, zoomed away from the destruction.

In its trailer, protected under a hastily covered tarp, rested the formerly confiscated remains of T.H.R.O.B.A.C's Hour Tower...

TO BE CONTINUED...


End file.
